


Blackdamp

by tinyvariations



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8416780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyvariations/pseuds/tinyvariations
Summary: Set after 1x06 “Constant Cravings,” Waverly is the new Keeper of the Bones, a job title that comes with a two-for-one deal:  an heirloom skull and a giant target on her back. With the Stone Witch on her heels, Waverly enlists the help of Nicole, and the two venture deep into the mountains in a race against the clock. Will they find a way to stop the Stone Witch before she deals with them once and for all?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So y'all, this is going to be a long one. I started writing this in answer to a bed-sharing prompt, and what started as a cute little scene mushroomed into this epic adventure. I solemnly swear that there will be fluff and bed-sharing ahead, but the girls have got to earn it first.

**Blackdamp (n.)** -

> An accumulation of carbon dioxide and nitrogen in excess of the percentage found in pure atmospheric air, reducing the available oxygen content to a level incapable of sustaining human or animal life. It occurs with particular frequency in abandoned or poorly ventilated coal mines, where exposed coal naturally absorbs oxygen and exudes carbon dioxide and water vapor. Odorless and non-combustible, the resulting depletion of oxygen extinguishes open flames and can asphyxiate surrounding human or animal life. Also known as choke damp.

* * *

Her breath is ragged with exertion, and her speed is reckless, but she doesn't dare slow down. 

 

Past the smaller forge she keeps for overflow projects, she rounds the corner near the door, and instead of watching the path, her eyes lift, landing on the old photo tacked onto the weathered wooden wall, its edges yellow and curling. The shift in focus is minute, but it's enough. Her hip rams into the bench on the corner, the momentum enough to tip it sideways, and the box of scrap metal that had been precariously perched along its back edge upends, sending its contents falling to the earthen shop floor like lightning, the metal glinting and shining dangerously in the low light of the shop. The sound is thunder. Without thinking, she reaches out to steady herself, to stop what's left of her forward momentum, but her hand comes away warm. Wet. 

 

The cut is jagged but shallow, and blood begins to well up and drip indecorously down her fingers, painting a portrait on the floor. Long accustomed to injury, she snatches a bandana from her back pocket and wraps it tightly around her palm with only the slightest of grimaces before continuing her circuit of the shop. 

 

"What's rule number one, Mattie?" Though long gone, she can hear her father's sonorous voice in her head as clearly as if he were standing next to her, the admonition in his tone clear. The love clear, too. 

 

When she was a girl, learning to master metal at the knee of her father, being allowed in the shop unsurprisingly came with a litany of rules and procedures. Rule number one was, well, he phrased it a lot of different ways over the years. Have patience. Make a plan, then act. Strike the metal only when ready - to do so before would be a waste of energy. In other words, slow down. And to a child, first and foremost, that translated into: "No running around the forge, Mattie!" 

 

"Sorry, daddy." Her throat moves; her lips form the letters, but no sound comes. 

 

She hears nothing but her own heartbeat, pounding rhythmically in her ears. It's hard to say if over time she molded her movements at the anvil to the beat in her chest, or if her heart learned to follow the rhythm of her strikes upon the metal. Either way, it's the sound she's heard her whole life - the clang of the hammer striking the white hot metal, followed by the softer tap of the hammer falling against the anvil, its energy spent before being hefted into the air to start again. 

 

Strike (tap).

 

It's like a symphony in her veins.

 

She doesn't slow her step. She can't. There's no time.

 

Because _she's_ coming.

 

Reaching into the back of the storage cabinet near the door, dusty with disuse, her good hand lands on soft leather. With a puff of dirt and soot, the bag dislodges from its hiding place, and making her way around the overturned table and scraps from a moment ago, she rushes once more down the length of the shop, bag in tow.

 

Back and forth, back and forth. The dust stirs in her wake as she wears a path into the shop floor, and bit by bit, item by item, the leather bag fills and stretches. Her pace is frantic, almost frenzied. But eventually, she does slow. Standing in front of her smithing tools, she stretches out her hand to run her fingers over the cool metal. Betty - her trusty anvil - sits silently to her right, and Mattie trembles at the whisper of shame she feels on her cheeks. Along the wall hang the flatters, the pinchers, the tongs in all shapes and sizes, these are the tools of her trade. Her inheritance. When she reaches one particular tool, though, her hand stills. Her blood beats impossibly harder in her ears.

 

Strike (tap).

 

She hesitates for a beat before grabbing it. The hammer is the oldest tool in her collection. It belonged to her great-great-great-grandpa, and like just about everything else around here, it’s been passed down from generation to generation. But this one is special. When she grasps it, it’s almost like an electric shock. The energy emanating from the metal is loud. It shouts. Before today it was a whisper. Before today, the energy was strange, unknown. But now - after this afternoon, after the skull - there’s a familiarity within that strikes her to the bone. 

 

So this was the one. She stares at the metal in her hand for a long minute, reading its energy, the cogs in her brain turning, before eventually clenching her jaw and shoving the hammer deep into the confines of her bag. 

 

Picking up pace once more, she continues running from station to station, sorting through generations of belongings in anticipation of flight. In spite of the snow blanketing the ground outside, the air in the shop is still and stifling, and sweat trickles down her neck as she moves.

 

This wasn’t originally the plan. After pushing the girl out earlier, after warning her of the danger to come, she’d clawed through the cabinet, frantic and panicked, pulling out all of the salt she could find. The salt became a circle of protection, and within its confines, she sat. And waited. The afternoon turned to evening, and the evening turned to night. The blowers continued to run, keeping the air to her forges circulating and the shop relatively well-heated. The waiting was interminable. In the hours she sat in the rocking chair, stiff and uncomfortable, her only company the cacophony of anxious thoughts in her mind and the gentle hum of the generator, another plan began to form. Whether it’s a plan borne of cowardice or reason she can’t really say. That’s the kind of thing that can only be determined in hindsight, after what will come has come. 

 

Because the Stone Witch will come. Whether today, tomorrow, or next week, she will come here in search of her son. And although Mattie has a gift, has power, when it comes down to it, she knows it’s no match for the witch’s. Glancing at the meager stocks of herbs and ingredients across from her, she shakes her head. Even if she had a well-stocked arsenal at her fingertips, she’s alone here. Unprepared. If it takes an hour or a day or a week, Mattie knows what her future will be if the Stone Witch catches her. She looks again at the table to her left where hours before she bonded a naive girl to an object of evil. The dread the fills her belly shifts heavily. As much as she wants to believe differently, to believe that she could withstand the witch’s power, her cruelty, she knows that ultimately it’s not just her own future at stake here tonight. If she fails, then the witch gets the girl, too. And if she gets the girl, she’ll get the skull, and then hell will come to Purgatory, the likes of which even this town has never seen before. 

 

But if she removes a cog in the wheel, a point along the path? If the Stone Witch can’t get to Mattie, then she can’t find the Keeper of the Bones. It’s like when there’s a whole line of ants marching along the same trail, their destinations certain. But wipe clean the trail they’re following? They halt. They make confused attempts at continuing, going left, right, backward, unable to detect the way forward. By leaving, Mattie’s banking on wiping out the trail before the witch can make it to the end. It’s the best shot they’ve got. 

 

Strike (tap).

 

Only half an hour has passed since she stood up from her chair, her limbs stiff and sore. Half an hour since she held her breath and stepped over the ring of salt on the floor. Now her pack is full of odds and ends, things she might need on her journey (and a handful of things she couldn’t bear to part with), and her mind has settled, focused on one final task. While running around the shop and stowing the vestiges of her whole life into one small bag, her mind has been hammering away on the topic of the Stone Witch, combing through and analyzing every scrap, every morsel passed down through her family for something, _anything_ that could put a stop to her. 

 

With slow, sure steps, she walks over to the closest forge, one of the smaller ones, and pulls a coal long since cold from the bed. Grasping it tightly in her uninjured hand, she turns back, eyeing the table where she bonded the poor girl to that cursed skull, before moving to the side and pressing the coal onto the wooden planks that make up the wall nearby. Her strokes are efficient. Clipped. It takes less than a minute before she’s stepping back and tossing the coal back with its brethren in the forge. This...is the best she can do. 

 

Hoisting the bag over her shoulder, the burden heavier than expected, she mutters under her breath, “Good luck, Waverly Earp.” 

 

When she steps out into the night and closes the shop door behind her, the snow is soft and silent, and the world is disturbingly quiet. 

 

The forge in her veins falls silent.

* * *

“God, Waves, there’s like twenty of these things.” Sprawled across Waverly’s bed, struggling to get comfortable amidst the collection of decorative throw pillows, Wynonna punctuates her complaint by flailing dramatically like she’s drowning, a hapless victim adrift in a brightly colored ocean. With another wiggle, she continues, “How can you stand this shit?” Grabbing at the one by her ear, Wynonna stuffs it under her head and pulls another one close, wrapping her arms around it like a life preserver. Glancing over her shoulder, Waverly watches as her older sister, her eyes closing, settles and stills, a fraction of a smirk alighting on her face. Not that she’d ever admit to it.

 

“C’mon, Wynonna. When we moved back in here there were cobwebs and bats and mice!” It comes off as a whine, but when she continues, her tone takes on a more teasing note. “And I’m still not entirely sure that family of chipmunks isn’t still living upstairs. Let me have my pillows.”

 

Turning back to the rack against the wall in front of her, the one that doubles as her upscale closet, she pulls yet another dress and holds it up to herself. 

 

And frowns. 

 

She puts it back, slides a few articles of clothing aside and pulls another. When she turns to Wynonna, seeking a second opinion, she’s met with an unamused face. And so the cycle continues. The hangers slide along the metal rack with a polished scratch, stopping and starting and stopping again as she peruses her whole wardrobe. When she gets to the gold number, though, she snatches it off the hanger and holds it up against her body for a quick once-over, not even bothering to get her sister’s opinion this time. This is the one. 

 

It’s been ages since she’s been out with the girls. Back in high school, they’d been inseparable, but even in the intervening years, when they’d all settled into their own routines with their own lives and own relationships, they might go out once a week, whether it was to grab a cup of coffee or to hit up a club in the city. But then Wynonna came back to town a few months ago, Purgatory’s own pariah returning triumphantly, trailing sarcasm, irreverence, and destruction in her wake. 

 

And everything changed. 

 

Some parts changed overnight, with the world of the revenants and the curse and the heir taking center stage in a way they hadn’t been since she was a child. Other parts were a little slower - the pulling away from her old routines, the move back out to the homestead. More and more she’s been M.I.A. from her pre-existing social obligations, skipping coffee to hang out at the station, poring over books and looking for clues in the Black Badge Division office. Or there was the trip to the city last month she missed because she was in the middle of performing some sort of ancient ritual in an attempt to catch and kill August, the demented old mirror-demon with his sights on her sister. 

 

At the thought, she sighs. _What the heck is my life right now?_

 

The crazy part is that she’s fully aware that she’s _enjoyed_ these things, from skulking around Bobo’s trailer park doing “recon,” to digging through research - _her_ research - trying to identify the seven revenants who attacked the homestead that night. For the first time in a long time, she feels awake, like she’s finally getting a chance to stretch her limbs after years of being cramped at odd angles. 

 

But she’s stretching in ways the girls don’t understand. They never could. Inevitably, they’ve seen her around town, following Wynonna or Dolls like a shadow. They’ve seen her Jeep parked outside the station with increasing frequency. In the beginning, her excuses were taken at face value, met with playful teasing and nothing more. But as the weeks passed by, she put less effort into her excuses, either unable or unwilling (she hasn’t pinned that down just yet) to care enough to sugarcoat the lie. 

 

She should have expected the result, should have been prepared. Invitations became few and far between. Texts were increasingly infrequent. Distance sprouted like weeds. There were whispers. Judgements. Gossip. 

 

About her.

 

All of it makes her feel like a kid again, like walking into school for the first time after the attack on the homestead, a hundred eyes on her, her classmates turning to one another and whispering about her. About the littlest Earp, the one with the crazy sister and the dead dad. No one would sit with her at lunch for the rest of the year. There were days when she got tired of the stares, of being so obviously alone, that she would forego lunch and just spend the period in the library instead, surrounded by books full of other worlds and other people far, far away from Purgatory. 

 

“OK, but you’re seriously going to spend your Friday night with whatsherface and her minions?” Wynonna scoffs, reclining serenely amidst the pillows on the bed, her legs pulled up and feet planted near the edge of the bedspread. 

 

Snapping out of her thoughts, Waverly turns and walks by, pushing Wynonna’s feet off her bed for the umpteenth time tonight. “I’m a happily single Virgo with hair for days,” she responds, flipping said hair over her shoulder dramatically. “I need a little fun.”

 

Fun is part of it. Life can’t all be revenants and curses, after all. But beneath the shallow rationale, the one she sold her sister and the one she tried to sell herself, albeit with little success, tonight she’s on a mission. After the attack, after...everything that followed, Waverly spent years working and clawing her way into the good graces of the people of this town, altering her tastes, her hobbies - anything and everything that could possibly pose a problem - all in a bid to never be that scared, lonely kid eating lunch in the library by herself again, unable to face the whispers and stares of her classmates. To be anything but a freak. 

 

Stopping in front of her vanity, Waverly shucks off her t-shirt and sweats and removes the dress from its hanger. 

 

Most of the town isn’t treating her any differently now than they did last year, still greeting her as affectionately as ever when they pass in the street, still offering a kind word and asking after her health when they stop in at Shorty’s. But the girls aren’t most people. And the radio silence, the cold shoulders - the flashbacks they bring are visceral, and her stomach clenches again at the thought. 

 

So. Tonight is a mission. Truth be told she had toyed with the idea of throwing an engagement party herself here at the homestead, but after talking with Steph and dropping some less than subtle hints, they had invited her out tonight to a place in the city for Steph’s bachelorette party, and this is her best shot to try and reestablish contact with her old friends, with her old life. 

 

Gingerly, she places one foot in first, followed by the other before pulling, the dress sliding up her legs. The fabric scratches her skin. 

 

She catches Wynonna pulling a face in the mirror and pauses, the dress only halfway up her torso. “What? It’ll be fun. Just the girls. No guys allowed.” 

 

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she regrets them. Watching Wynonna in the mirror is like watching a cat ready itself to pounce on its prey, all eyes and teeth. She’s practically wriggling in her pillow cocoon, like Waverly had just served up a big fat canary on a silver platter. 

 

“Have I told you how glad I am that you dumped that rodeo clown yet?”

 

“Only a dozen times,” Waverly sighs. “It hasn’t even been twelve hours since it happened.” And it’s only been a couple of hours since Waverly told her sister about it, but clearly she had started celebrating immediately. 

 

“Yeah, well, dude, get used to hearing it. I plan on saying it at least once a day for the next month. Maybe longer. Can’t say for sure.” The smile on Wynonna’s face is radiant. 

 

It’s a little unsettling. 

 

“Just promise me it’s for good this time. I am _not_ going to be throwing you an engagement party if you end up with him.” 

 

Waverly resumes dressing, tugging the top up and getting her arms through their respective holes. “Please. Like you’d ever be caught dead doing something as normal as an engagement party.”

 

The bed squeaks a few times and then falls silent. Waverly jumps a little when sure hands grip the back of her dress and zip it up in quick, efficient fashion. She mumbles a “thanks” over her shoulder, but Wynonna doesn’t respond. At least not directly. “You look nice.” The words are soft. “You sure you want to waste it on that crowd?” Waverly rolls her eyes. A compliment couched in an insult. That’s more like it.

 

Without waiting for a response, Wynonna continues, “I’m gonna head out, meet up with Dolls and see where we stand on the seventh.”

 

“Maybe Doc has some ideas?” she offers, and Wynonna’s mouth pulls down at the corners, but only for a moment. And then it shifts and hides, as if it were only a trick of the light. In the end, Wynonna settles on a shrug. “Nah, he made it perfectly clear this morning that being on Team Earp is bringing him unwanted attention with the local population of walking dead. So...” The annoyance in her voice is plain, but there’s a strain of hurt as well. 

 

“But he’s got to help…” Waverly’s voice trails off, her brow furrows. How could he not see this through?

 

Wynonna clenches her jaw and shakes her head a fraction. There’s something else there, something she’s not saying. For all her bluster, her oldest sister has a terrible poker face. But if she isn’t willing to talk, Waverly isn’t going to push it. Not right now, at least. The moment passes. 

 

Wynonna grabs her leather jacket off of the highback chair nearby, and as she shrugs it on, her eyes fall across the way to the fireplace, where a skull now has pride of place there atop the mantle, its hollow eyes facing the room as if it’s been watching the scene unfold. 

 

“You sure you don’t want me to take your new BFF here to Dolls? See what Black Badge can find out about it?” Wynonna strolls over to the fireplace and bends at the knees, putting on her meanest glare and engaging in a staredown with a foe long-since dead.

 

“No!” Her answer is automatic, and maybe a tad more emphatic than she had intended. Wynonna looks back over her shoulder and cocks her head, confused. 

 

Walking to the doorway, she clarifies, “I mean, Uncle Curtis left it to me. If I give it up to Black Badge who knows if I’ll ever see it again, right?”

 

Straightening, Wynonna shrugs her shoulders yet again before answering, “Whatever. Just...call me if you come back early.” And with that, she’s gone, the front door closing with a squeak behind her, leaving Waverly staring straight across at the skull. Her skull. Well, not _her_ skull, but…

 

It’s a weird feeling, like she’s made up of half oil and half water, the two sides of her sliding past one another and never meeting, never mixing. There’s pride in her role, honor at being trusted to be the Keeper of the Bones. But the smile that’s threatening to break out falters, falls. Her brow furrows. This...isn’t normal. The Earp’s don’t do normal, not even in an inheritance. And tonight is about proving that she can be normal. That she can still fit in. 

 

“Hmph.”

 

She doesn’t have time for this. Not tonight. Heading back to her room, she stops to grab her favorite tights and spends a minute wriggling her way into them, shimmying on the bed and dislodging a few of her pillows. From there it’s short work to finish getting ready, brushing her hair, selecting a pair of shoes, and fixing her makeup (although it took her an embarrassingly long amount of time to decide on the socially appropriate shade of lipstick for the occasion). 

 

When she eyes the finished product in the mirror, a self-satisfied smile creeps up her face. If this is a production, and Waverly, or “Normal Waverly” rather, is a role, then this is the perfect costume. Flashes of gold and black and skin - the glamorous girl looking back at her looks ready to take the club by storm. Not a freak. Life doesn’t have to be all death and revenants, and she can prove it. 

 

Glancing at the clock overhead, she mutters under her breath and grabs her coat before heading toward the front of the house. 

 

“This is going to be fun. You’re going to have a great time.” The words come out a little hollow, a touch tired, but she doesn’t notice. Smiling and nodding to herself, she grasps the cool brass knob on the front door, flips the lock before opening the door and crossing the threshold into the night. 

 

The skull watches from the mantel in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

“OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG!” Steph screams, her voice piercing enough to be heard over the thumping bass and shrill vocals filling the crowded room. There’s an answering squeal from the other girls, and in an eerily coordinated movement, they get up from the table as a pack, leaving Waverly wondering if she’s at a club or watching a nature documentary. 

 

“Woo!” Waverly’s response is muted, false, but she’s hopeful it’s enough to pass muster in the deafening club. 

 

As they shove their cosmos and long island ice teas back onto the table, some of the contents sloshing over the rim and dribbling down the sides, one of the girls bumps Waverly’s shoulder hard enough to nearly knock her off her stool, either unaware or simply unconcerned with the effect. Waverly is betting on the latter.

 

Steph practically runs back out to the floor, throwing elbows to clear a path, leaving a trail of angry glamazons in her wake. As always, Delena and Sonja are in quick pursuit, never comfortable being left out of the action, the Flotsam and Jetsam to Steph’s Ursula. 

 

Pulling the sleeve of her dress back in place, Waverly opens her clutch and checks the time on her phone for the thousandth time tonight. Early in the evening, she had been subtle, afraid to give off the impression she wasn’t having a good time on their girls’ night out, but as the hours have worn on, the amount of effort she’s willing to expend on trying to be low-key has dwindled at a steady pace. 

 

The numbers on the screen are harsh and crisp, and in the low light of the club, it’s enough to leave Waverly squinting at the sudden brightness, her headache flaring at the audacity.

 

_12:08. God, is that all?!_

 

Their party has been here for a little over two hours, but it feels more like ten. Looking back, she’s not even sure what the worst part of the night has been. Sure, it had gotten off to an alright start, with hugs all around and compliments on her dress, words that left Waverly floating on a social high she hadn’t felt in ages. In typical fashion, Steph had then treated everyone to a blow by blow of the latest development in her wedding planning, which apparently was the big news that they had picked out a groom’s cake. And by they she meant Steph. “Ugh, he wanted some camouflaged hunting cake or something. As if I was actually going to allow that at our wedding. I mean please,” she had explained. Everyone laughed, high and giddy.

 

Except Waverly. She doesn’t know exactly what happened, where things broke down. Maybe she’s gotten rusty in the last few months. With Wynonna back and more and more of her time being spent in pursuit of revenants, she’s forgotten how to play the game. She used to be a pro at this, playing the role, reciting all the right lines, the whole world a stage. But they’re not even an hour into girls’ night and she’s already flubbing her lines, failing to react appropriately - or rather failing to react in the way that Steph would want, her face not schooled into a suitable appreciative response. So when Steph looked around the group to bask in their approval, and her eyes fell on Waverly, they narrowed ever so slightly, and the scales tipped.

 

With the first round of drinks, the easy chatter continued, the girls settling into a bit of gossip. Talk quickly turned to the fiance, courtesy of Steph, and to boyfriends and exes. 

 

And then it started. A slow swivel, a flash of the eyes, and two words from the queen bee: Champ Hardy.

 

What followed was an excruciating ten minutes of outright disbelief and superficially friendly teasing about Waverly’s decision to finally cut ties with Champ. While on the surface they kept it civil, playful, it wasn’t terribly difficult to read between the lines. 

 

_But y’all were so cute together!_

 

_But he was so indulgent, Waves… (of you and your weird hobbies)_

 

_But he’s the hottest guy in Purgatory… (where are you ever going to find someone else that hot to date you?)_

 

The only one even remotely supportive of her was Chrissy, but she was never a big fan of Champ to begin with. Back in school, he’d been a real dick and a half, and Chrissy, all gangly and awkward and shy, had been the target of his bullying on more than one occasion. 

 

Waverly endured it with as much aplomb as possible, and eventually Steph switched gears, steered the group to another subject. Something neutral, trivial. But with a gleam in her eye and a drink in her hand, the bride-to-be would guide the conversation back to Waverly, relishing in the opportunity to needle her about yet another sensitive topic. And so it went, this passive aggressive conversational roulette, a constant back and forth between compliments and digs, jokes and put-downs. At any moment it was impossible to predict which Steph would pick. The others followed suit, adopting her moods and movements like a flock of birds. 

 

Looking up, she watches the girls on the dance floor for a moment and takes a sip of her coke. After her first drink, she had traded in her old fashioned for something non-alcoholic. The jabs and digs had sobered her quickly, anyway, and although it might be more fun to let loose, in the end, she opted for a clear head to help roll with the fickle moods of the bachelorette. When talk turned to Wynonna and to “the murder house,” as they called it, their laughs grating like nails on a chalkboard, she landed on defensive rather than all-out angry, although neither reaction would have changed the course of the night, in the end. 

 

This used to be easy. Heck, this used to be fun. But tonight playing this part, being the normal girl, it chafes and binds in ways it never did before. 

 

Her breathing is shallow, labored, and a headache is beginning to pulse behind her eyes. In the heat of the crowded club, her hands are cold and clammy. 

 

_Why am I here?_

 

A bead of condensation trails slowly down the outside of her glass. She tracks the movement with her eyes. 

 

The beat slows, the track shifting seamlessly into another, one marked by a throbbing bass that vibrates up through the floor and settles in one’s limbs. With it, the mood in the club morphs and modulates, less frenetic now, more visceral. Emerging from the crowd, sweat beading on her forehead and a dazed grin on her face, Chrissy makes her way back to the table where Waverly has been standing sentinel over their drinks. She doesn’t say anything - just smiles. It’s completely without guile, a smile that doesn’t hide an insult or an inside joke. It just...is, and Waverly finds her own lips pulling up at the corners in an echo.

 

Looking away, her eyes roam the room, looking for the other members of their party. Delena and Sonja appear to have some local guy cornered, and Steph is dancing - well, maybe that’s not the best word for it. Waverly cocks her head to the side a bit. _Yeah, that’s definitely not dancing._ Instead, the bride-to-be is out on the dancefloor sort of...melting into some random guy, a guy whose hand is on her ass and tongue is down her throat and who is most definitely not Steph’s fiance. 

 

Rolling her eyes, Waverly leans toward Chrissy and says, “Hey, I think I’m going to go...”

 

Across from her, the smile turns to a pout in a fraction of a second, the bottom lip jutting out in emphasis. It’s the same pout Chrissy’s been using on her dad with incredible success her entire life, and it reminds her so much of the two of them in middle school that it makes her own smile soften. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” she clarifies. Or tries to. She ends up having to repeat herself, practically shouting to be heard over the noise of the club.

 

Still pouting, Chrissy sets her drink back down on the table and reaches out, pulling Waverly into an affectionate embrace. She’s tipsy and warm, and the hug is comfortable and familiar. There are some things that don’t change. 

 

“I’m glad you could come tonight. I miss seeing you.” The words sink in, under her armor, and warm her from the inside. This part makes it worth it. Her eyes closed, she squeezes Chrissy back briefly before pulling away a little.

 

Resting her hands on Waverly’s shoulders, Chrissy continues, “You be safe. And you’d better text me when you get home, OK?” Her breath is sweet, strawberries and rum and affection. 

The smile she feels spreading across her face is the most genuine one all night. “Yes ma’am,” Waverly responds warmly before turning and weaving her way through the writhing crowd. 

 

When she reaches the exit, she walks out into the night without looking back, breathing deeply - finally - in the clean, crisp night air. 

 

The drive back to Purgatory is quiet, the roads empty except for the odd car or the occasional eye shine of a coyote or fox alongside the highway. The chill is a balm after the heat of the club, the silence affirming after the vibrating bass, and Waverly heads back home on autopilot. 

 

It’s closing in on one in the morning when she rolls through downtown past Shorty’s, where a handful of customers are straggling out onto the sidewalk at closing time. Waverly keeps driving. When she nears the station, though, her speed slows, whether consciously or not. The light turns red, and her Jeep idles at the intersection as she waits.

 

Wynonna’s truck is there, battered but true, as is Dolls’ SUV. Nicole’s cruiser sits quietly along the other side, gleaming brightly in the yellow-orange light of the streetlamp. 

 

Everyone is working late, she realizes, and the wave of wistfulness that washes through her knocks her back in her seat, her hands falling slack at the wheel. She could have been here tonight, she thinks, could have helped her sister, helped Dolls. Done something _useful_. And it would have been so easy, wouldn’t it?

 

She stares at the station’s entrance longingly, as if a little more concentration, a little more wishing could summon bones, stir breath, give life to the night that could have been. 

 

She’s tired. This struggle - between doing what she wants, what she’s good at versus being the person others expect her to be - it’s exhausting. It sits heavy in her lungs. It aches in her bones. 

 

So tired.

 

Lost in thought, she doesn’t notice the light cycle to green in front of her. And then yellow. And finally back to red. The road remains empty. The Jeep idles.

 

Still, she sits. 

 

Her eyes fall again on Nicole’s cruiser, and without preamble she finds herself wondering what her night brought, hoping it was easy. Hoping it was warm. 

 

Later, on the drive home, she’ll blame it on the late hour, blame it on the long night, the time on the road. Any excuse. But none stand up to scrutiny long. Not really.

 

Eventually, she’ll decide it’s better not to think of it at all.

 

Green. Yellow. Red.

 

Sitting there in the intersection, the engine idling, heater running on low, she imagines pulling into the station and waltzing inside, still dolled up and glamorous from her night on the town, imagines strolling slowly by the bullpen, a smile and hello ready for the deputy on duty. Just a quick hello, of course, before heading back to the Black Badge office to check in on Wynonna and Dolls. Unconsciously, she reaches up and fusses with her hair, her eyes still locked on the door across the way. 

 

Green. Yellow. Red.

 

It’s hard to say how many light cycles Waverly might have eventually sat through there in the early morning hours on the empty streets of Purgatory. In the end, it’s movement that startles her out of her thoughts. The door to the station opens, a flash of auburn, a swath of khaki. Nicole Haught strolls out of the station and into the night. 

 

For her part, the now off-duty deputy’s head jerks up at the sound of squealing tires and an engine roaring to life, and she’s just able to make out the shape of a Jeep as the taillights retreat into the distance.

 

“Waverly?” Nicole mutters, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head, confused, unsure, before shrugging and continuing to her car, a stifled yawn reminding her of the late hour and long shift.

 

* * *

 

The Jeep’s headlights cut across the homestead’s darkened windows, casting skeletal shadows along the empty house. When the engine cuts out, silence settles like a shroud, Waverly’s hurried footsteps the only sound to break the deathly quiet. Inside the door, she shrugs out of her coat and hangs it on the rack, maneuvering on autopilot. The skull grins at her from its place of pride on the mantel.

 

“Shut it,” Waverly bites out in response as she passes, reaching up to work at the clasps of her earrings. At the sight of her bed, though, her hands still, and she falls face first into the mattress, making no attempt to suppress an embarrassingly loud groan. But her feet are heavy, pinched. In a feat of amateur acrobatics, she bends her legs back, giving first one foot and then the other some blessed release. Stockinged toes wiggling, eyes closed in bliss, she chucks the offending heels over her head in the general direction of the closet, too tired to put them away like an adult. _Adulting is overrated._

 

Something shatters, the sound like a bucket of cold water, and her eyes spring open. In a second she’s up and off the bed. Her aim, it seems, isn’t as good as she believed. Kneeling in front of a lone cardboard box in the corner of her room, she extricates the misfired shoes and surveys the damage with a soft whine. The wayward projectiles, the ones Steph had said were fit for a donation box ( _“Oh I’m just kidding, Waves!”_ ), had regrettably landed in the last remaining box of Uncle Curtis’ belongings - the one she keeps meaning to go through but amazingly always manages to come up with something else to do. Pulling the black boots out and surveying the damage, she laughs with relief, the sound echoing off the walls around her. With another yank, she wrestles free a ceramic moose. Or what’s left of it. Her uncle was a wonderful man, but lord he had some weird tastes. Setting good old Francis (yes, Francis) aside, Waverly gingerly picks out the shattered remains of his other half. One of the antlers slips through her fingers, though, dropping to the bottom of the box with a soft clink. The novelty fades quickly. Dropping to her knees with a huff, she shifts the box’s contents about, determined to dig out all of the sharp fragments, a belated effort to atone for the lapse in adulting before. Her tongue sticking out, her brow set, she strains her fingers - just...a bit...further - and touches - _leather_? 

 

Confused, she peers into the box and sees the edge of something near the bottom. It takes less than a minute to unpack enough of Curtis’ junk to reach the object in question underneath them all. It’s a journal, the leather soft and worn, shiny in places from being held, from being touched and opened time after time. She thought she’d seen most of Curtis’ treasures. “There’s a skull in the living room that suggests otherwise,” she mutters ruefully to herself. With her head cocked in curious anticipation, the leather strap loosens and the journal falls open.

 

Pages upon pages of her uncle’s sharp handwriting come into focus, words cutting the cream colored surface, crammed in between careful drawings and doodles, some of it as inscrutable as the man himself. She skims, not really reading, just...looking, her eyes wide. 

 

Until she sees two words - two words that cause her to finally put her arm out, to sit down on the ground in front of the box. Two words that steal her breath.

 

Stone Witch.

 

And that’s how Waverly Earp came to be sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, fancy dress hitched up high on her thighs to allow the movement, the back end of a ceramic moose by her side, hunched over an old leather journal in the wee hours of the morning. 

 

The sequins on her dress shimmer dully in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the light plays on the ceiling like stars. 

 

* * *

 

The sun’s been awake for hours, the bruised pinks and purples of the early morning long since faded, the sky a startling blue. 

 

A pink Lincoln turns onto a dirt road out in the remote part of the county, its progress slow but deliberate, snow crunching under its tires. In the distance, a fence line comes into view. At first, it’s just one skull, a bull perhaps, a set of horns jutting out towards the road menacingly, but as the car nears the small cluster of buildings set back from the country lane, one skull turns into a dozen, a silent army imploring, warning. The “No Trespassing” signs hung haphazardly close to the drive seem a touch redundant.

 

The Lincoln slows, stops, the soft pink a sharp contrast against the crisp blue sky. With a soft electric whir, a window slides down. Inside, Constance Clootie’s eyes are closed, and she breathes deeply. A smile begins to pull at her lips, but it keeps pulling, turning what started as a pleasant expression into something more sinister. Predatory. Like a wolf looking at a girl in a red cloak, strolling alone through the woods. 

 

She can _feel_ it. Sense it. The magic -- this is the place.

 

When her eyes open, they hum in electric blue.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the county, an alarm sounds, shrill and insistent. Waverly Earp, sprawled face-first across her bed, whines and reaches out blindly with her hand, vainly trying to shut it off. Papers, leather, pillows - so many pillows - eventually her fingers land on her phone, and the room returns to silence. 

 

It takes a minute for recognition to come, her brain slow to shake the sluggishness of slumber. Her other hand remains curled tightly around its prize, the worn leather of her uncle’s journal warm and rich in the late morning light. She had pored over her uncle’s scribbles until the light outside her bedroom had lightened, inky black turning to deep purple bleeding to hesitant blue. That much she remembers. Eventually, her eyelids had grown too heavy, and she remembered no more.

 

With the alarm silenced, she sits up slowly, eyes scrunched against the late morning light.

 

“Ugh…,” she groans, her neck stiff. 

 

Work waits for no one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright kids, it's finally time to get a Nicole chapter. Last of the solitary ones, I promise! And this one's a bit longer than the others...kind of got away from me a bit. Sorry!

She reaches out her hand, intent on grabbing the door handle, but it stops just shy. Hovers. The sun catches the jewels dotting the bracelets on her wrist, casting an array of bright flecks throughout the interior, dancing along the ceiling, across the dashboard, and sliding down the door panel. But all else is still. Constance Clootie cranes her neck and closes her eyes once more, her features strained, as if she’s listening to something. The two men in the car exchange a look, unsure of what’s happening, unsure of what will come, but they know better than to give voice to their confusion. They’ve seen the consequences many times before.

 

“Goddammit!” she bites out suddenly, her jaw clenching. Her motions are sharp, violent, and she throws the gearshift into drive in a blur of inhuman speed. The Lincoln lurches forward, snow crunching once more beneath its tread as they pull away from the property on which they’d come to call. 

 

A hawk cries out from its perch high atop the last skull along the split-rail fence - a scream, a warning, and it shatters any remaining vestige of tranquility in the far reaches of the county. As the car passes, the hawk’s head turns, blood-red eyes blinking languidly in the late morning sun. Watching. 

 

Constance snarls but continues forward. A few hundred yards further the road curves sharply to the left, and it’s here that she stops, around the bend and out of sight, concealed by unruly pines and wild undergrowth, killing the engine and plunging the countryside into silence once more.

 

“Stay,” she says, and the men remain seated, eyes forward, unmoving. Ever obedient. 

 

She creeps back toward the property a few paces, her high heels finding uneasy purchase amidst the snow and pine needles, pausing only when she has a clear line of sight. There she waits. The dull whine of an engine sounds in the distance like the first rumble of thunder, a harbinger of an approaching storm.

 

The maroon Ford truck that appears on the road pulls confidently into the shop’s drive, blithely ignoring the posted warning signs dotting the landscape. When it stops, an older man steps down from the driver’s seat and heads toward the building’s entrance. From her post, she can hear him as he calls out. 

 

“Mattie!”

 

He approaches the door, his steps slowing, hesitating before going inside. “Mattie?” she hears once more, but that will be the last time he calls out. 

 

Behind the trees, the silence stretches. Constance Clootie waits, unblinking, anxious for any indication as to what’s inside. _Who’s_ inside. 

 

She doesn’t have to wait long.

 

The man comes stumbling backward out of the door like he’s seen a ghost, and he’s back at his truck in a flash, digging through his center console with wild abandon. It isn’t until he’s leaning against the door, his hand held to his face that she realizes he’s grabbed hold of a phone. 

 

“911? Yeah, I’m out at the Blacksmith’s shop, and I think...I think something bad’s happened.”

 

There’s more, but she doesn’t hear it. The anger simmering in her veins - anger at being delayed, anger at being so close she can practically taste it - begins to boil over. A growl rumbles deep in her throat, and her fists shake, the silver bangles around her wrist clattering in protest while the air around her crackles with electricity.

 

* * *

 

With a turn of her wrist, the engine cuts off abruptly, leaving Nicole sitting in her cruiser in silence. The sun shines brightly overhead, its rays reflecting haphazardly off the hood of the car. Nicole squints in an effort to read the clock on the dashboard - 11:58 a.m. It feels far earlier than that. 

 

“Shift work is a bitch,” she mutters around a yawn, the words stretched and muted and utterly without bite. 

 

A quick shake, a roll of the neck and she’s out of the car, heading inside to start another work day. Up ahead the door opens, another deputy shuffling out, his uniform a little haggard, a little wrinkled, and - _c’mon, man, you’re making this too easy_ \- powdered sugar on his chest. 

 

“Hey, city girl,” he quips, his smile tired but friendly.

 

“Hey, Cooper. Did you manage to actually eat any of that donut or were you just going to save it all for later?” she responds without breaking stride, grinning widely as she passes by and steps through the open door.

 

Behind her, she hears a muttered “Oh son of a bi-” before the door cuts him off, and she walks toward the bullpen, her chuckles echoing brightly in the tiled hall.

 

When she hears herself, hears the easiness of her laugh, feels the pull of the smile on her cheek, there’s a warmth that settles into her limbs that’s unfamiliar but entirely welcome. In a few weeks, she’ll hit a milestone - her six month anniversary in Purgatory. Six months since she left the city, watching the skyscrapers and neon fading slowly away in her rearview mirror. Six months since she rolled into Purgatory, a place far enough off the path, far enough away that she could start over, small enough she could make a real difference. In many ways she’s just as much an outsider as she was on day one when she showed up in a truck loaded down with all of her worldly belongings, but she’s made some inroads. It’s a slow process, establishing herself in a new job, earning the respect of her peers, making friends. Especially in a place like Purgatory, where everyone grew up together and newcomers come along once in a blue moon. It doesn’t help that the boys’ club is alive and well here, and some of the guys aren’t real keen on letting her in. But for each of those, there’s someone like Cooper, easygoing and friendly, and more than willing to let Nicole’s solid work pick up his slack. 

 

It’s not the first time she’s been the new kid, not her first rodeo. She’s more than equal to the challenge.

 

But that doesn’t mean it’s a cakewalk. So moments like this, moments of camaraderie, moments where she’s not the odd one out - they’re treasured, something to store away for the nights she’s alone in her apartment, passing the hours watching Netflix and carrying on one-sided conversations with her cat. 

 

Crossing the threshold into the bullpen, she spies Linda, the aging admin, sitting up front, diligently filing her nails. 

 

“Mornin’, Linda,” she offers.

 

Without looking up, Linda responds in kind, “Hi, darlin’.” The filing continues. 

 

Nedley is behind his desk in his office, his head cocked to the side, the phone cradled between his ear and his neck while he calmly jots out a few notes. When she walks toward her desk just this side of his office, the movement catches his attention, and he gives her a brief nod when he catches her eye.

 

The stetson comes off and takes its place of pride on the corner of her desk, the same spot as always, before Nicole turns her attention to the most important item of the day: coffee. Police work doesn’t happen without coffee. Hell, nothing happens without it. Out of habit, she looks to the center of her workstation for her to-go cup of coffee, only to find the spot cold and empty. _Dammit. Why today?_

 

There’s been a concerted - albeit difficult - effort lately on her part to save a little cash by skipping the morning cup of coffee at the diner (and the inevitable breakfast that comes with it) and just drinking from the communal pot at the station. A shudder runs through her at the memory of the sludge masquerading as coffee she poured from the carafe during last night’s shift. There’s a fine art to it, she’s learning. Catch it at the right time of day, and it’s drinkable. Coop is notorious for needing the extra cup to get him through his overnights, so there’s probably a healthy dose left from his last pot, maybe an hour old at this point if she’s lucky. She turns toward the hall and narrows her eyes in the direction of the break room, as if she can somehow gauge the coffee situation through two walls and twenty feet of intervening space. With a shrug of her shoulders, eyes still on the doorway leading to the coffee - her coffee - she’s halfway out of her department-issued coat before she realizes her name is being spoken. 

 

“Haught.” Nedley comes to a stop a couple feet away from her desk, his hands playing absentmindedly with a slip of paper he tore from the pad on his desk, the edge torn and uneven.

 

“Yes, sir?” 

 

“Just got a call from dispatch. Hayes Ashcraft is out at the blacksmith’s place out on County Road 63. Claims there are signs of a struggle.” He pauses, considering his words. “Probably nothing,” he continues, moving forward to hand the note over to Nicole, “but go ahead and check it out.” 

 

“Yes, sir. I’m on it.” With a nod, the sheriff turns, trudging back to his office without a second glance. He’s not a man of many words, Sheriff Nedley, but there’s enough weight in his terse instructions to pique her interest. Moving quickly, she re-situates her coat about her shoulders and settles her hat back atop her head, one of Purgatory’s finest taking shape in reverse. But in patting her pockets, making sure she’s got all of her gear, she pauses, her hands hovering mid-air. A longing look, a soft whine gathering in her throat (although she’ll deny it if anyone dares call her on it), and a decision is made. 

 

No way in hell would she respond to a call without her gun, without being properly prepared, and it’s not much of a stretch - not really - to consider caffeine an integral part of her duty gear. Grabbing her insulated mug from the top right drawer of her desk, she mutters a quick prayer to the coffee gods and makes a detour on the way out of the building, hoping against hope Coop left some for her.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, the blacksmith’s place is in BFE. Two wrong turns, an extra call to dispatch for directions, and thirty minutes later, Nicole pulls her cruiser in alongside the waiting pick-up truck outside the shop, her ears red with embarrassment at the delay. Six months with the department and she’s never patrolled out here, never come anywhere even close to this lonely stretch, out of sight, tucked out of the way like it doesn’t want to be found. 

 

When she steps out of the car, her boots hitting the snow with a crunch, she comes face to face with the skull of a bull, its bones bleached and ghostly, almost luminescent in the bright midday sun. 

 

And it’s not alone. Looking slowly from one side to another, she takes in what passes for decoration out here - a handful of skulls, great hunks of metal sticking out of the dirt (although whether they’re junk piles or some sort of avant-garde sculptures she can’t quite decide), and a couple of “No Trespassing” signs hung with delicate care atop the rusty barbed wire running alongside the drive.

 

_Okaaaay._

 

She’s suddenly feeling a little better about having never been to this particular stretch of the county.

 

An older gentleman, his hair beginning to gray at the temples, gets out of the nearby truck and walks over to greet her, his hand extended, worry lines marring his face.

 

“Mr. Ashcraft?” she guesses, reaching out to shake the proffered hand. 

 

“Hayes, please. Thanks for coming, Officer.”

 

“Tell me what happened,” she prompts, slipping into the professional routine like a second skin, her tone calm, her voice measured yet authoritative, and her notepad ready in hand.

 

“Yeah, I uh...I dropped by to pick up some new shoes for my horses and a few other things Mattie’s been repairing for the ranch, but when I hollered for her, she didn’t answer. So I...I went in, just to make sure she was alright, you know? She’s out here by herself, so I thought...I don’t know…” He worries at his lip before continuing. “I thought something might have happened.”

 

“So she was expecting you?”

 

“Right, yes, she knew I’d be by today. But when I walked in, well…” His jaw sets. “You’ll see. I didn’t go far. I thought it was best to call y’all in instead.”

 

“Alright,” she responds, tucking away her notepad in the breast pocket of her coat, “if you could just sit tight for me for a moment, I’m going to take a look around real quick. I’ll be back out in a few minutes, Mr. Ashcraft.”

 

He nods before taking a few steps back, rubbing absentmindedly at his neck where it’s exposed to the chill of the day. 

 

Nicole turns to survey the exterior. _No smoke. No lights. Definitely looks like no one’s home._ There’s a rhythmic crunching behind her, the sound of nervous pacing. _Guess he’s too antsy to just get back in his truck. What the hell spooked him so bad?_

 

Tuning it out, she steps gingerly around the sculptures (?!), and heads toward the doorway. _No sign of forced entry._ With a less than gentle nudge of her gloved hands, the door gives way, sliding sideways on a well-used track, and she steps into the darkness beyond, releasing the strap on her holster and drawing her gun while she lets her eyes adjust. The gun is more a precaution than an expectation, standard protocol for clearing a building. Never know what lurks around the corner. 

 

Especially in Purgatory.

 

The building is cold, hardly warmer than the outside, her breath pluming before her face like smoke. A wisp, a moment, and it fades into the dim interior, only to form again with each exhalation. There’s a lingering smell, a mix of smoke from the coal and something heavier, metallic. It catches in her throat, sits sharply on her tongue. 

 

When her eyes fully adjust, she realizes the floor beneath her feet is hard-packed dirt, nothing more. There’s a trace of lingering snow by the door, likely dragged in by Ashcraft, but otherwise the ground is too hard to hold much of a record of any other visitors. Reaching back, she eases the door closed behind her. It slides home with a surly groan. Well, mostly home. Stepping carefully, mindful of the placement of each boot - just in case - Nicole continues into the building’s interior.

 

All about her, drawers are pulled open, their contents strewn about haphazardly. It’s mildly disconcerting. _Call me crazy but I don’t think it’s supposed to look like this._ To say it’s disheveled is an understatement. Saying a small, localized tornado ripped through and tossed everything here and yonder feels closer to accurate. No more than ten feet inside the doorway is a veritable mountain of metal, a heap of odds and ends, sharp and jagged and all kinds of dangerous. 

 

_And...blood? Blood. That’s definitely blood._

 

Her fingers tighten infinitesimally around the grip of her Beretta. 

 

Stepping around it - for now - the deputy ventures further into the disquieting stillness of the shop, needing to complete her circuit of the layout, to verify it is in fact as abandoned as it feels. Priorities. She picks her way past sleeping forges and silent anvils, past pieces of worked iron, the remains of a half-finished project, its bones left exposed, a skeleton rising half-formed from the pit. More cabinets hang open around her, their contents exposed to her strange gaze. After a few more feet, the narrow walk widens abruptly and dead-ends in what looks like a small living area. A narrow room lies ahead, empty save for a single bed. Another door leads to a small restroom, empty again. _No one home._ There’s a different note to the air in this part of the building, the overtones of smoke and iron underpinned with something softer, almost pleasant. _Maybe herbal? Floral?_

 

There’s a rocking chair to her left, nondescript, the kind that looks like it came from grandma’s house, but it’s what’s around its base that catches the deputy’s eye. It’s ringed in white, a circle, broken again and again, the white substance kicked and shuffled around so much the effect is marred. 

 

Nicole crouches, and putting the fingertip of her free hand in between her teeth, she bites down and pulls back, sliding out of the glove in one fell swoop, leaving her hand bare, exposed in the chill of the shop. Reaching forward, she grabs a pinch of white, and slowly, so slowly, she rubs the granules between her outstretched fingertips, analyzing, calculating. 

 

_Is...is this salt? What the hell?_

 

A shiver runs through her body, a response wholly unrelated to the cold. Not that Nicole realizes the difference. Not yet. The last of the salt falls to the floor like snowflakes. 

 

And it _is_ cold. Her ingress has brought her past three, four forges of various sizes. When they’re all up and running she’d expect it to feel more like a Texas August in here. But there’s no smoke, no fire. Not even the glow of an ember to be found in any of them. Instead, they sit cold and lifeless as corpses. _It’s unnatural._ That word pops into her head unexpectedly, crowding out all others once it appears. But it fits with unnerving perfection. _This is...wrong._ All wrong. And it permeates the atmosphere. The shop is preternaturally quiet. No hushed crackle of coal, no hiss of hot iron meeting water, not even the dull grumble of a generator. 

 

There’s nothing. Nothing but silence, and it’s deafening, a roar in her ears. 

 

With the threat of immediate danger seemingly cleared, the deputy stows her weapon, sliding it smoothly back into the leather holster on her hip, but she leaves the retention strap undone...just in case. From her coat pocket, she withdraws her cell phone, opens up the camera.

 

Flash.

 

The chair.

 

Flash.

 

The salt.

 

Flash.

 

The open drawers, the disarray, she snaps several quick photos, a preliminary effort to preserve the crime scene. _Possible_ crime scene. With slow, careful steps, the deputy makes her way back down the narrow path towards the entrance, her progress halted by the occasional flash of her phone.

 

Her steps slow when she reaches the scrap heap near the door, discarded on the floor like the blacksmith’s version of 52-card pick-up, or another postmodern art piece, a companion to the ones out front.

 

Flash.

 

When she crouches, the blood spots come into sharp focus, appearing dark, almost black in the low light where it’s dried into the dirt. But on the metal, reflecting dully in the reedy light of the dingy windows, the scattered drops are deep red, a statement, a shout in the room’s otherwise muted palette.

 

_I need to talk to Nedley._

 

She stands, a twinge of anxiety spurring her into movement, and she closes the distance to the door in a second. Her swiftness stirs the stagnant air, a swirl of dirt and charcoal dust spins in her wake. Something to her left twitches, rustles in the sudden breeze. It’s a photograph, old and yellowed, tacked to the wall just beyond the reach of the track of the door. 

 

 _A man and child - a little girl. Is this the blacksmith?_

 

Although the pair is all smiles, there’s something bittersweet in the photograph, and she finds herself feeling like an interloper intruding on a private moment. She looks away, her eyes sliding in the direction of the door. And then they stop. 

 

There’s something there on the wall, couched in shadows, barely discernible in the low light, more suggestion than substance. It takes only a moment for Nicole to unlatch the flashlight from her duty belt and click it on, illuminating - _is this a drawing?_ She cocks her head and studies, catalogs every detail she can discern.

 

Someone has drawn what appears to be an inverted capital T, its arms a little longer than normal, and at the tip of each arm a letter - W on the left, E on the right. In the upper right quadrant the artist has scribbled a word, or perhaps it’s two. Was two, maybe. The script is cramped and sloppy, but if she squints her eyes enough, holds her head at just the right angle, the first word could possibly be construed as “Devil” or perhaps “Devil’s,” but the second word is a lost cause, the charcoal smudged, a dark streak obscuring the harried script. _E? F? P? Dammit...what’s this supposed to be?_

 

The charcoal itself is dark and vibrant, slashes of mars black against burnt umber, no sign of dirt atop the strokes, and Nicole jumps to a conclusion before she can stop herself: 

 

 _This is recent._

 

Flash.

 

 _What in the hell is this?_

 

Her brow furrows, and she tenses, unable to shake the vague unease creeping along her back.

 

It isn’t until a gust of wind whistles through the small crack in the door that she jolts out of it, straightening like a wire. A few more photos and she forces herself to step away, back towards the entrance. Putting her hand on the cold metal handle, she pulls, watching with rapt attention as the door swallows the drawing whole in its movement along its track. Gone. Hidden. 

 

The door open, the dim space fills with early afternoon sun, and Nicole scrunches up her eyes in discomfort, turning her head to the side, waiting for the shock of the sunlight to abate.

 

Mr. Ashcraft is nearby, pacing anxiously near his truck, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. 

 

“Give me just a sec. Gotta call this in.” 

 

Nedley’s his usual stoic self when she reports back her findings, a trait she’s grown to find comforting and frustrating in equal measures.

 

“That’s why I sent you instead of Gomez,” he explains. “You’ve had more crime scene training than anyone else in the department. Take care of it, and get me a report when you get back.”

 

He’s right. And frankly, that’s terrifying. Rural counties don’t typically have a dedicated crime scene unit, not like the city. There’s no money for it. What meager resources they’ve got are better spent on vehicle maintenance, investing in a fleet that can stand up to all of the miles, the patrols in far-flung corners of their districts. The state crime lab will assist when needed. Eventually. But it’d better be damn convincing to get them all the way out here. Out of the academy for a year, and the rookie is suddenly the expert. _No pressure, Nicole_. At least Purgatory doesn’t get the same kind of crime scenes they had in the city.

 

Well...they didn’t used to.

 

A checklist begins to take shape, her mind racing, a plan of action forming:

1\. Interview the witness and cut him loose.

 

2\. Get the kit from the trunk and process the scene, get blood sample for the state lab.

She reaches for the travel mug in her console, tips it back when it meets her lips. One lone drip of coffee dribbles out, cruel and mocking in its solitude. Jaw clenched, she amends her checklist:

3\. Cry about lack of coffee.

Her soft whine dies in the wind when she exits the car, and her professional mask is firmly in place by the time she reaches Mr. Ashcraft to begin his interview.

 

Nearby a hawk watches the proceedings from its perch, feathers ruffling in the brisk wind.

 

* * *

 

The steam is rich and smokey and feels like a soft bed after a long day. Resting her elbows on the bar top, Waverly wraps her hands protectively around the mug and holds it still in mid-air just beneath her nose. She stays like that, her eyes closed, her breaths deep and even. Entranced.

 

A loud slam startles her, and her mug jostles alarmingly in her hands, coffee splashing gracelessly over the rim. 

 

“I’ve called your name a half dozen times, girl,” Gus says, exasperation evident. “Were you asleep standing up?” Waverly has the decency to look chagrined, offering an awkward laugh in lieu of an apology, and Gus walks off, a towel slung over her shoulder, shaking her head. 

 

Waverly stands tall...for about a minute, but then she’s leaning once more, sinking into the bar top to continue meditating on the virtues of coffee and awaiting the onset of happy hour.

 

Shorty’s is slow today. The lunch rush had passed in a blur, and for that she was grateful. After that the crowd had thinned, her daytime patrons filtering out and headed into the world to do something productive with their Saturdays, leaving the bar all but deserted. She played hostess when needed, making small talk and slinging beer for the one or two folks who have trickled in in the couple of hours since then, but for the most part, it’s been quiet.

 

During the stretches when she’s alone, though, she had pulled Curtis’ journal out of her bag under the bar. It would be easy to assume she’s just relaxing, reading a good book and sipping coffee to pass the time, but her reading is ravenous, a focus borne of caffeine and curiosity. 

 

It’s during her third read-through that she nearly spilled her coffee on it, her movements alternating between clumsy and jittery, the reality of the practically sleepless night making itself known. At that point, the journal had returned to the bag for safe-keeping. But although she’s no longer turning its pages, reading its words first-hand, she continues to analyze its passages in her mind. Some are gibberish, and she grimaces when she thinks how drunk Curtis might have been during the writing of those particular pages. Other passages are almost scientific in their construction, detailed and thorough. There are passages on Earp family history and the curse, personal stories that she had never managed to find in all of her own research, something that both amazes her and lights a jealous fire inside. And then there are the others, dark and terrible pages containing words she dares not believe. These are the ones that stick in her mind like tar, and she finds herself returning to them again and again, turning them over and over trying to reconcile these with her favorite uncle in the world. 

 

Glancing up over her coffee, she checks the time on the giant Budweiser clock on the wall across from her.

 

“Ten more minutes,” she mutters to no one in particular. Sighing, she sets the mug down and switches gears, thinking over her pre-evening bar checklist: cut limes, clean glasses, check kegs. She’s already done them all, but with happy hour starting shortly and the supper-time rush following on its heels, it’s time to turn the brain off and get back to work, a sentiment that sits increasingly uncomfortably with her.

 

She stifles a yawn just as the bar door creaks open, and she manages to paste a saccharine smile on her face just in time to greet her newly arrived customer.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon is well into its downhill slide by the time the police cruiser departs. Already the sky darkens at its farthest edges, twilight gathering, waiting in the wings for the right cue. 

 

In her car around the corner, Constance Clootie fumes.

 

Early in the afternoon, she had been animated - vocal, even - but as the stakeout had dragged on, her energy had morphed, turned inward, a tempest simmering just under the surface. In the front seat, she had grown still. Statuesque. Her eyes closed, her lips move in a susurrant whisper. To the man in the back seat, it sounds melodic. Perhaps prayerful. 

 

She spends her afternoon issuing curse after curse, unrepeatable things, her lips shaping each word with cold precision. The business that delayed her trip out here, the cowboy, the police, anyone who has gotten in her way - no one escapes the thoroughness of her rage. 

 

So much time wasted. 

 

When the Lincoln finally pulls into the blacksmith’s drive, she steps out, unfolding her limbs like a cat waking from a nap. Her goons follow suit. One walks ahead, sliding the shop’s door open along its track while the other stands behind, silent.

 

The blacksmith’s workshop is cold when Constance Clootie prowls in, her heels thudding dully on the dirt floor. She pauses inside the door and closes her eyes.

 

When her breath reaches her lungs, she holds it, letting it marinate, studying it like a fine wine. Her hands tremble slightly, but the tremor is lost against the fur of her coat. 

 

She can feel the residue of the magic the blacksmith used. But it’s faint, a wisp on the air. 

 

Encouraged, she continues forward, sauntering straight past the ridiculous mess all around toward the back like she’s being pulled along on a rope. Upon seeing the chair, sitting empty in a pathetically broken ring of salt, a laugh crosses her lips, dark and ruthless. 

 

“You set up a welcoming committee but didn’t even stick around?” she teases, addressing herself to the empty chair. “Tsk tsk, so ill-mannered.” 

 

The magic is stronger here, and it feels different. Electric, like the air itself is charged. It prickles against her skin, the hair on the back of her neck standing as if lightning is about to strike. Closing her eyes, she tries again, inhaling sharply and waiting for it to hit. 

 

But the strike never comes. 

 

The realization that the hours spent outside may have allowed the trace to dissipate to critical levels has her snarling in frustration, hackles raised in her fur coat. But - there’s something. She cocks her head to the side, searching. Instead of a punch, there’s a tickle. It’s gossamer, soft and wispy, swirling slowly with the coal dust in the air. Where she had wanted a shout, the world has given her a whisper. 

 

It’s faint, but it _is_ there. Her boy has been here. She had known this morning that she wouldn’t find him inside, but she had stayed anyway.

 

This is the closest she’s been in a century.

 

And now that she’s got the trail, she can feel it, however slight it may be, she can _feel_ it. But there’s something else there, too. Another scent, another flavor of magic alongside the one she knows so well. 

 

More. She needs more. 

 

And she has an idea of where to start.

 

Her coat whips, slashing and stirring the heavy air in the shop as she turns and stalks through the open door, her eyes alight and her jaw set. 

 

High above the hawk circles once, twice more before breaking its pattern and heading south.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, y'all!
> 
> In this one and quite possibly in coming chapters you may notice some familiar interactions. I've used a few lines directly from the show. Honestly, even though we're living through an altered timeline in this story, where we've diverged from the show at a point in time and have gone on a separate journey, I really gravitate to the idea that there are some things, some nuances that will happen each and every time, words that will always be said no matter what the universe. So if you see something that looks familiar, it's very much intentional.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“It’s OK,” he slurs. “Look, c’mon, come over after work, huh? Let’s make up.” 

 

And there it is. A slow wink and an easy grin, a dip of the head to make sure his hair falls in his eyes (or at least the part that’s not glued down with gel), and… 

 

_God I can’t believe I used to fall for this routine._

 

When she doesn’t respond to his invitation, doesn’t follow the script they’ve rehearsed again and again over the years, he tries again, leaning in closer across the warm wooden bar top. A cloud of cologne accompanies him, and she struggles to keep the coughing in check. 

 

“Huh, Waves?” His tone is smug, almost patronizing, the kind of tone one might use when talking to a kid. He reaches out for her across the bar. At the feeling of his hand, calluses rough against the bare skin of her arm, she fights the urge to flinch away. “Whaddya say?” A few hoots and hollers reach her ears, and she cuts her eyes in their direction. His boys are over at the pool table, as usual, a couple pitchers of beer between them, watching the scene at the bar unfold with laughs and shoves and the other typical rituals that only seem to exist in groups of guys. They shout again, egging him on. The noise grates on her nerves like nails on chalkboard.

 

Tuning out the ambient noise, she says simply, “Go home, Champ,” before taking a step back from the counter. As she pulls away, his hand slides down the length of her forearm, across the back of her hand, along her fingers, the calluses scraping and scratching the whole way. It’s like falling off a bike as a kid, her limbs rubbed raw on the asphalt, and she glances down before she can stop herself, half expecting to see flecks of rocks or pebbles or other road debris marring her skin.

 

“C’mon, come home with me.” He pauses, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft, his breath hot against her cheek as he leans in conspiratorially. “Nothing at your place but that stupid skull, anyway.” The words fall out of his mouth with abandon. “Besides, I’ve got other bones you can play with,” he says, one eyebrow cocked, a grin alighting on his face - the one he uses when he’s really proud of himself.

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

And another.

 

And another.

 

The grin slides slowly downward, his face transforming first into empty neutrality and then, further, into an exaggerated pout. An honest to god pout, with his eyebrows drawn together and his lower lip jutting out far enough to ride to town on. His mom never could resist that pout, and once upon a time neither could Waverly. He’d pull it out when he was really in trouble, after spats and break-ups or forgotten anniversaries alike. Or, more memorably, after that time she caught him kissing Becca Lunsford under the stands after one of his rodeo competitions. 

 

Familiarity, whether good or bad, carves its way through one’s life like a river through a canyon. The progress is slow, gradual, barely discernible at the onset. But one day you look up and realize how deep the canyon is, how the walls tower overhead, blocking the sun in places and leaving the path ahead in shadows. There are moments where it becomes nearly impossible to remember what it was like outside of these high walls, impossible to imagine any other possible path. The sheer cliffs loom, hopelessly steep. Escape becomes inconceivable.

 

Oh, she’d resist for a while, sure, turning him away, fuming in her righteous anger and vowing that was the last time. Vowing that there were better things out there for her than...him. But as the weeks would drag on, as the girls would start to bend her ear again like some sort of unofficial fan club, he’d inevitably turn up at her doorstep - or barstool - with the same tired script, and even though she knew the words by heart, had heard them a dozen times before, eventually the overtures would crack her exterior, erode her resistance, carve its way into her flesh until she finally relented.

 

_But that was a different Waverly._

 

When she finally responds, her face is stone, her voice ice. She’s unyielding. “Champ Hardy, you listen to me. No. It’s always going to be no.” He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off before he can start. “I’m calling your sister. You need to sleep this off.”

 

Across the bar top, his mouth closes and opens again. _He looks like a drunk fish._ Waverly has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing when the thought occurs to her. Gathering himself, he opens his mouth again, “Wav--”

 

“Sounds like the lady doesn’t want to be bothered,” a voice to her right drawls, the sound almost sweet in the raucous atmosphere, but there’s an unmistakable sharpness to the tone, a knife’s edge impossible to ignore.

 

Hidden from view under the counter, Doc’s coat billows open just a hair, and the barrel of his gun, sitting snugly in its holster against his hip, glints dully in the bar’s low light. In spite of the alcoholic haze, the message is blunt enough to find its mark, and Champ manages to find his feet, stumbling backward a step before turning and heading back to his boys by the pool table without further remark.

 

Doc watches him go. “I’m sure they’ll hear a different tale from him, but I-”

 

“I didn’t need your help, Doc,” Waverly snaps. “I had it under control.” The second part comes out more as a sigh, exasperation breaking through the edge she’s trying to maintain. 

 

_Why does everyone think I can’t take care of myself?_

 

Squatting down, she pulls a tray of fresh glassware from the shelf beneath the counter, savoring the strain in her arms as she slides it out, the load heavy and unwieldy. She takes a deep breath to calm her nerves, but the air behind the bar is musty, and it sits heavily in her lungs.

 

“You know who did need your help?” she asks, straightening, setting the tray down on the bar, the glasses ringing against one another, church bells calling for Saturday night services at Shorty’s. “Still does, in fact, need your help?” She stills a moment, looks him square in the eye before continuing. “Wynonna.” Crossing her arms across her chest, one eyebrow raised in challenge, Waverly waits.

 

“Ah,” he replies, removing his hat and running his fingers absentmindedly along the brim as he considers his next words. “I suppose she’s told you about our little conversation the other day.”

 

“Right, the one where you told her to go to hell?” she responds hotly, her voice rising. A newly arrived patron passing by the bar well glances toward the pair with interest, her boot steps slowing deliberately. When Waverly remains silent, waiting, the woman huffs in disappointment and picks up her pace once more, not finding the entertainment she had hoped for. 

 

“It was wrong of me. Too much drink.” His grin is roguish, but it loosens at the corners when he continues, “Too much pride.” 

 

_There. That one. There might actually be some truth to that._

 

In a flash the openness is gone, replaced by another smug grin, and he doesn’t elaborate further. She wonders again at Wynonna’s caginess, wonders what else is at play, why it feels like they’ve got stage directions in their scripts that aren’t on hers. 

 

“My parlay with Bobo del Ray is finished,” he says without preamble, although whether it’s just a change of subject or a camouflaged apology she isn’t sure. Whatever, it’s probably the closest he’ll get to one. She sighs heavily, settles.

 

“I have a proposition for you,” she says. Doc raises his eyebrows and waits. “Maybe it’s time you move onto our land. You can stay in the barn.” When his mustache twitches, Waverly rolls her eyes and continues. “It’s getting cold, and you shouldn’t freeze to death just because you’re as stubborn as a mule. Besides, friends don’t let friends get gutted by revenants.”

 

With a wry smile, she leans forward across the bar a little. “Plus it might be nice to have some company. Help us not die.” 

 

He waits a beat before replying. “A very nice invitation.” Another pause. “Feels like something that should also come from your sister.” His smile is forced, melancholy, but it softens as he adds, “I’ll consider it.” 

 

They settle into silence. Waverly reaches back and grabs a bottle of whiskey, filling a glass with a couple fingers’ worth and sliding it over to Doc. 

 

Resting one elbow comfortably on the bar, he leans easily against it and angles his body out toward the room, watching the other patrons with mild interest. With a strike, one of Champ’s buddies sends a cue ball streaking across the pool table not far from Doc’s perch at the bar, breaking the rack in a peal of thunder and sending balls caroming wildly against one another. When they slow, roll to a stop, their momentum spent, exactly none of them have found their way into a pocket. The spectators let loose a torrent of taunts and hollers, and the din carries across the wide interior, echoing brightly off the bar’s hardwood floors.

 

“What’s this the boy was saying about a skull?” Doc drops the question casually, his tone as light as if he’d asked after the weather, nothing more than a way to fill the conversational lull. Leaning against the bar, he’s the picture of nonchalance. 

 

But it’s a feint. His eyes are sharp, and his head is angled. He waits for a response with the studied ease of a predator watching for prey. A gator, lurking near the shoreline, waiting. He listens carefully for her response.

 

Looking around and finding no one within earshot, Waverly says quietly, “My uncle left it for me to look after.” She chuckles a little sheepishly, adding “Human remains...what every girl wants in an inheritance, right?” But even to her ears, the joke feels forced.

 

He calculates, his eyes widen ever so slightly. And then he chuckles as if it’s nothing. “I’d be careful who knows you have that. Town like this. All sorts of unsavory characters, including one Bobo del Ray.” He waits a moment as if he’s trying to make a decision, before continuing. His eyes meet hers briefly, as if in emphasis, before sliding away again, returning to their survey of the bar. “There are two skeletons up at his construction site, one of which-” he pauses again, looking at her once more, “-is missing a skull.” 

 

With a tip of the hat, he collects the tumbler of whiskey and saunters away, the click of his boots barely audible amidst the din.

 

“Great,” she mutters under her breath, watching Doc’s retreat. Taking the old empty glass tray, she moves it to the back side of the bar, ready and waiting for Gus to snag next time she makes a circuit through the place, and Waverly goes back to ruminating on witches and inheritances while pouring beer for the people of Purgatory.

 

 

* * *

 

Doc sits down at a table well away from the young-uns playing at billiards, this one a hair’s breadth from the comforting warmth of the fireplace. When he sits, he sticks out his boots and snags another chair, dragging it closer and closer until finally, it’s in position, and he promptly props both of his feet on top of it with a creak, his legs crossed at the ankles. His hat on the table beside him, he picks up his glass and swirls the amber liquid within, while the flames leap and flicker in his periphery. 

 

“There are few people in this town, man or woman, tougher than the Blacksmith, but I’m telling you, something’s happened to her.” The statement is met with a mixed response of nods and murmurs, and Doc looks over at the next table with genuine interest. 

 

The table is full of the town’s old hands. Every city has them, the old men that can always be found at the diner in the morning, chatting over their coffee, or in the bar at night, talking over beer, far worse gossips than any of their wives. Currently, an older gentleman holds court, silver at the temples, with the weathered features of a man who has spent his entire life outdoors. 

 

Looking away, Doc feigns disinterest. The flames in the fireplace play tricks with his eyes, and the whiskey in his hand flickers and dances, glows like hellfire. For all appearances, he’s lost in thought, just another solitary drinker seeking solace at the bottom of a glass. 

 

But he drinks in every word.

 

Hayes, as he soon learns the speaker is called, his chest puffed up with the spotlight and his cheeks red with the drink, weaves a tale of intrigue for the assembled jury, full of mysterious vanishings, bad omens, unexplained upheaval, and uneasy feelings. Oh, and blood, of course. There’s even a mention of the town’s “new lady cop,” and Doc smiles to himself at Officer Haught’s appellation. 

 

Of course, the story is exaggerated, in the same way a fish caught is never quite as big as the one that got away, but what’s a bar if not a place for a little storytelling. There’s enough there, though, to pique his interest, to remind him of a time long ago, long before the darkness, long before the interminable wait, to a blacksmith he knew back when he was well and truly alive. 

 

With a purse of his lips and a twitch of his mustache, a decision is made. His boots hit the floor with a thud, and he steps toward the neighboring table, a few tall tales ready at the hip, his ticket into the clubhouse. 

 

With any luck, these gentlemen might unknowingly have the answers to a few questions lingering in his mind. Perhaps they might be able to shed some light down a well or two.

 

And even after all these years, Doc Holliday believes in luck.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s another half hour before the traffic through the door slows to a crawl. The noise level has stabilized at a dull roar, with the occasional outburst of laughter from various corners of the room. Or the occasional crash of breaking glass - it’s Purgatory, after all. Waverly Earp, barmaid extraordinaire, leans further and further onto the bar top with the passing of each minute. Gus stands to the side, watching her wilt, but Waverly doesn’t notice her audience until she speaks. 

 

“Go home.” Waverly straightens at the words, preparing to launch a salvo of protestations, but Gus holds up her hand to cut her off. With a nod to the Budweiser clock on the wall, Gus explains, “You’ve only got half an hour left, anyway, and you’re dead on your feet.” Her eyes are soft, her voice warm, but she brooks no argument. “Go home. I can handle this.” 

 

A heavy sigh, a nod, and Waverly bends down to grab her bag from its spot under the bar before stepping out and heading toward the back room to change into something warmer. The shaded lamp over the pool table swings slowly as she passes, its small circle of light an ever-moving target. Champ and his friends stand just on its outer ring, their faces illuminated and darkened in turn. She can’t make out their faces too clearly, but she hears the chuckling, sees them elbow one another and look in her direction as she walks by, leering like they’re sharing an inside joke at her expense. Their eyes remain shadowed, but their teeth gleam brightly, too brightly in the low light, sharks circling in the water. She doesn’t slow.

 

When she passes by the Purgatory Regulars’ table, none other than Doc himself is holding court, his eyes wide, his face animated as he tells a story to a rapt audience. He’s gesturing wildly, some yarn about…a dog, maybe? She smiles a little at the thought of the centenarian gunslinger finding a fit with the town’s senior citizen brigade, and she shakes her head in wonder as she pushes through the door to the backroom.

 

 

* * *

 

She really did intend to go home. Honest. There’s a sea of pillows with her name all over them.

 

But when she stops at the red light at the intersection by the station, it’s deja vu. Everyone’s there. Again. Dolls, Wynonna, Nicole. Everyone but Waverly. 

 

Again. 

 

Another night of everyone else doing something useful, doing something with purpose. And then there’s Waverly. Getting off early from her shift at the bar. 

 

Her knuckles turn white where she grips the steering wheel.

 

When the light turns, so does she.

 

 

* * *

 

Her shoes squeak, marking her progress down the station’s tiled floors. Her steps slow when she walks by the bullpen, but when she peeks in, she finds it deserted. The lights are on, but no one’s home. At her desk over near Nedley’s office, though, she spies Nicole’s stetson, sitting regally on the corner, so Waverly knows she’s not too far away. 

 

A flicker of something resembling disappointment passes over her face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, the kind of thing someone could easily convince themselves never happened in the first place. She picks her pace up again and marches herself into the Black Badge Division suite. 

 

Dolls and Wynonna are standing side by side, their arms crossed resolutely across their respective chests and their backs to the door, staring at the investigation board with such fierce concentration that Waverly’s entrance goes unnoticed. 

 

Her coat slides easily down her arms, and she hangs it on the rack by the door before stepping fully into the room. With a quiet “hmph,” she tosses her bag onto the table by her side where it lands with a crash. Wynonna jumps in her boots at the interruption. Dolls, however, is unflinching. 

 

“Any news?” Waverly asks by way of greeting. 

 

Dolls opens his mouth to respond, but the silence is broken instead by a shrill beep. Wynonna scrunches up her face, and Dolls looks down at his phone, lit up and noisy.

 

The beeping ricochets in the enclosed space, loud and insistent and tooth-achingly shrill.

 

When Dolls checks the screen, realizes who’s calling - again - his stoic visage slides into a grimace, and without fanfare, without word or excuse, he turns and walks into his inner office, the phone still sounding in his hand. The door closes soundly, the glass panes rattling dangerously in the frame, and the insistent clamor cuts off mid-trill.

 

When Waverly looks at her questioningly, Wynonna rolls her eyes. “Think the Boss is riding his dick.” 

 

That’s it. That’s all she gets by way of explanation. With a shrug of her shoulders, Wynonna goes back to looking at the board, and Waverly joins her, bumping into her side playfully.

 

The grainy photograph hanging dead center at the top of the board is a familiar one, although it’s picked up a few more adornments over the last few weeks, bends and creases marring the image where they’ve removed it again and again to inspect it, to study it in all of its grim glory. Red X’s cover the faces of six of the figures where they stand lined up next to their...their…

 

Waverly shudders. 

 

It can’t be helped. To shiver is automatic, as involuntary as a heartbeat, when faced with the specter of death so stark, so real before her. If she looks too long, too hard, her sister’s screams echo in her ears, and she has to swallow to stop the horror from sliding down her throat. 

 

The pair stands in silence, both lost in thought, battling the kind of memories that have teeth and claws, memories that scratch, wound in an unending struggle. 

 

With a deep breath, she looks again at the figures in the photograph, the death party assembled. This time, though, she focuses, staring at the X’s covering their faces like death masks, confident slashes in blood red, stark and powerful.

 

And very, very solid. Six of them.

 

“I can’t believe you’ve gotten six…,” she whispers, laying her head on her sister’s shoulder. Wynonna leans her head in as well, atop Waverly’s. “Just one more,” she says on a sigh.

 

When Wynonna responds, there’s a hard edge to her voice, and it vibrates sharply against Waverly’s cheeks, seeps into her bones. “We’ll get him.” 

 

And then quietly, so quietly that Waverly almost misses it, Wynonna repeats, “We’ll get him.” There’s no question in it, no uncertainty. It’s a statement of fact.

 

A promise. 

 

They stand in companionable silence a minute longer, Waverly with her eyes closed, Wynonna’s eyes open but distant, watching a scene fifteen years old but vivid enough to be current.

 

“We’ve been going back through your research, just-” Wynonna starts, staring at the photo on the board without seeing it, “-looking, trying to find if there’s anything we missed.”

 

She gestures absently with her hand before continuing. “The only thing we’ve got to go on is his cane…” She trails off, her jaw clenching in frustration, and she shifts a little as she crosses her arms once more. Silence settles between them anew. When Wynonna shifts again suddenly, Waverly raises her head, stands up fully. 

 

With a confused look at her sister, Wynonna says, “Aren’t you supposed to be working tonight?” 

 

“Oh, I-”

 

A crash issues from behind the closed office door, barely muffled behind the glass, and both girls startle out of their spots, their breaths catching in their throats in the ensuing silence as they lean forward a fraction, eyes trained on the door. 

 

A silhouette, a hand outstretched towards the door, but it just...hovers, all forward progress stalled as if frozen. But then the shadow breathes, its shoulders rising and falling heavily. 

 

Once. 

 

Twice. And then the door is opening, Dolls striding out into the larger room purposefully, his phone sliding back into his pocket, out of sight, and he returns to his former position near the girls like nothing happened. 

 

Wynonna stares at him, the question on her face unmistakeable, but when no answer is forthcoming, she swivels her head back to her sister.

 

“Geez!” she mouths to Waverly in a silent aside. 

 

“I think we need to go back to Bobo.” The suddenness of his speech is jarring, and both girls whip their heads around to stare as he continues. “We’re stalling out here, but he’s got to know something.” Dolls doesn’t look anywhere but straight ahead, for all appearances keenly focused, but there’s an energy radiating off him in waves, a warning on a molecular level.

 

“Nothing happens without him knowing about it.” Leaning first left, then right, his neck stretches and pops. “Let’s put him back under surveillance. See what we see.” Without preamble, he steps out and forward, making his way toward the outer door. 

 

“Wait. Right...now?” Wynonna asks, her face screwed up in confusion, glancing surreptitiously at the clock on the wall opposite.

 

“Yeah, Earp, right now,” he hollers back. Turning back to her, he continues, “Unless you’ve got a hot date?” His eyebrow raises in challenge, and a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. Or at least Waverly thinks she sees one. 

 

Maybe. Possibly. She’s never really seen him smile before, so she’s not completely sure what one would look like. 

 

“Okay...,” Wynonna responds, thrown off guard a little, but forcing her feet into action. “Whatever you say, bossman.”

 

The pair grabs their coats from the rack near the door, and Waverly walks over, reaches for hers as well, ready to don her suit of armor and help out. 

 

Ready to feel like part of the team. 

 

But Wynonna’s staring at her like she’s grown a second head, and her feet falter, her progress stops. The nylon slips between her fingers, falls limply back in place on the rack.

 

“Dude, I love you, but you look like shit,” her sisters says, slipping first one arm and then another into her coat. “When’s the last time you slept?” Dolls raises his eyebrows but otherwise doesn’t get involved. 

 

She can feel the fire start, her cheeks burning hot and indignant.

 

_I’m not invited. Of course._

 

But just as quickly as it began, the fire quavers, fizzles, and she’s left cold in its absence. 

 

Without waiting for a response, Wynonna finishes bundling up, her coat zipped and gloves on, ready for battle. As she begins to move, she calls out over her shoulder, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the table, “Hey there’s a couple of donuts left from earlier, but hands off the powdered ones.” 

 

Turning, Wynonna faces Waverly, who stands in no man’s land between the coat rack and the door, while continuing to backpedal into the hallway. “I mean it!” she reiterates as she disappears from view around the door frame.

 

Waverly stands still, limbs frozen, her mouth slightly agape.

 

Without warning her head pops back in frame, and she punctuates her statement with a threat so Waverly knows she means business. “I’ll set fire to all of your pillows. Don’t test me.” Waverly narrows her eyes, scandalized. With a wink, Wynonna vanishes again.

 

Click, click, click. 

 

Her sister’s footsteps fade down the hallway, and Waverly stands stock-still by the door of the Black Badge office, listening. When the steps recede and the quiet descends, she shuffles back to the table and sits, her eyes downcast, her hands resting impotently in her lap.

 

But it only takes a moment for the quiet to give way. Her thoughts stir and swirl, ugly thoughts whispering at the fringes, insinuating and goading, giving voice to the uselessness she feels settling in her limbs. The thoughts grow teeth; they gnaw at stomach, bite into her skin. They itch and irritate. 

 

Her eyes flit around the room, her mind wandering, desperately seeking an anchor, a harbor - anything - but she finds none. Moisture prickles at the corners of her eyes, and she chews at the inside of her lip. 

 

When the first tear forms, rolls slowly down her cheek, she doesn’t try to stop it. In fact, she doesn’t move at all. She remains frozen, her limbs like ice. The tear trickles down her cheek and then finally, without fanfare, it drops, drifting through the air like snow. It lands on the back of her hand, resting in her lap.

 

She shivers.

 

A shake of the head, she tries to snap herself out of it. There’s a tissue in her bag, so she leans forward and drags it closer, reaching deep into the dark depths in search. Instead, her fingers graze over soft leather and pause in mid-air. 

 

The journal. 

 

She stretches her fingers over its breadth, and it feels warm beneath her cold fingertips. After a moment of hesitation, her movements turn sharp and purposeful, and with sure fingers she grabs hold and pulls for all her worth at the lifeline, unearthing the journal from the deep and laying it open in front of her in a blur of motion. 

 

Running her fingers across the cover again, tendrils of warmth reach up through her fingertips, wrapping tightly around her arms, seeping under her skin and thawing her limbs. 

 

She begins to nod to herself with each pass over the binding, and with each one, a measure of resolution solidifies within.

 

_I’m the Keeper of the Bones._

 

She thinks the same thing repeatedly, on loop, like a self-validation technique. 

 

It’s hard to say how long she sits like that, small and alone in the empty Black Badge Division office. But eventually, she wipes at her eyes, a deep, calming breath filling her lungs, and reaches out to grab a pen and notebook from the desk behind her.

 

She thumbs open the journal, ready to work.

 

The clock on the wall ticks quietly.

 

 

* * *

 

When the words on her computer screen begin to blur, their edges becoming indistinct, her official report devolving into a jumbled alphabet soup, Nicole lowers her head and rubs her eyes aggressively, willing them to function.

 

_Just a little while longer._

 

It takes a minute and a vigorous regimen of blinking, more rubbing, and some minor head shaking, but the world begins to slide back into focus, letter by letter, word by word. 

 

But even with the words returned to full form, her vision restored, the deputy stares at the screen. And stares. And stares. Her thoughts fail to comply, forcefully resisting a similar return to clarity. 

 

The cursor blinks at her tauntingly. 

 

Frowning, her eyes never leave the screen - engaged in a game of chicken with the damned cursor, afraid that being the first to flinch means accepting that her train of thought is well and truly gone. Reaching out blindly, eyes on the computer, she grabs at her mug, finds the cool ceramic and lifts it into the air. Immediately, she knows it’s bad news, the mug far too light. 

 

Reluctantly, she breaks her gaze, glancing down and confirming her fears. 

 

She’s out of coffee. 

 

_Yeah, alright, I get the message._

 

A yawn forces its way out as she pushes her chair back, stands up, her joints a little stiff with disuse. Reaching up high towards the ceiling, she lets her muscles pull and stretch, reveling in the way her blood begins to flow through her veins again. 

 

Shuffling out and around her desk, she pads out into the hallway. The station is quiet tonight, most of the offices empty and dark. Gomez is out on patrol, and the next shift isn’t due to clock in for another hour or two. 

 

Her boots sound unnaturally loud on the tiled floor as she turns into the break room, where she makes a beeline for the communal coffee pot. Finding it bone dry, Nicole sets about making a new pot - scooping the grinds, setting the filter, filling the water. Her movements are automatic, a routine repeated so frequently she could do it in her sleep.

 

There have been shifts where she’s pretty sure she actually _has_ done this in her sleep, and the deputy fills with a strange mix of pride and horror at the thought. 

 

She stands for a minute in a daze, willing the coffee to brew faster, but just as it begins to percolate, the bittersweet mocha smell wafting out into the room, she remembers-

 

_My pictures._

 

It’s been probably half an hour since she pushed print on her computer, since she heard the ancient behemoth of a printer whir to life down the hall and set to work recreating the images she requested. They’re the ones from her phone, taken at the call earlier this afternoon out at the Blacksmith’s place. Enlarged and touched up a smidge, she intended to take this set home, give her something to mull over on her off days.

 

Leaving the mug beside the coffee pot like a promise, she backtracks out of the room and heads into the office next door, a little closer to the front of the building, home to their giant, crotchety printer/copier, easily ten years old. It’s slow as all get out, but usually the end result isn’t bad. Her photos are waiting in the tray, and she gathers them up in her left hand as she heads back out to collect on that coffee debt.

 

Entering the hallway from this direction, though, headed toward the back of the building, she notices something that escaped her a few minutes ago when she had first emerged into the hallway, shuffling along like a zombie on her way to get caffeine.

 

The door to the Black Badge Division office, two doors down from the break room, is open, light spilling into the hall in a sharp triangle. 

 

_Weird._

 

Awhile back she’d caught a glimpse of Deputy Marshall Dolls and Wynonna Earp leaving the station, and he’s usually super anal about locking up when he’s not around. 

 

_Hell, even when he is around…_

 

Curious, she takes a few steps closer with a mind to at least pull the door to, but when she reaches the doorway, stretches her hand out to grasp at the brass doorknob, she freezes. In spite of the bright lights, almost blinding in their intensity, she can just make out the shape of someone inside, slouched over. Unmoving. 

 

Set up at one of the long tables in the room, the person’s head is down, and as her eyes adjust to the light, she can just make out the slow rise and fall of their breathing, barely visible. They’re sleeping soundly amidst a sprawl of maps and notebooks, a mess of wavy brown hair -

 

“Oh,” Nicole whispers softly to herself. Realization hits. 

 

_Waverly._

 

She stands in the doorway for a moment, perhaps a little longer than she should, but the deputy is torn, unsure if she should breach the very explicit deal between the department and Black Badge by crossing the threshold. But…

 

She worries at her lip a moment before taking a few tentative steps into the room, padding quietly, doing her best to not startle the girl in front of her. But Waverly sleeps soundly, her face open, her breathing deep and even, and Nicole stops in her tracks, her brain seemingly unable to concentrate on both looking _and_ moving at once.

 

_She’s just…_

 

With a sigh, she shakes her head, breaks her gaze, turns and surveys the office around her. Across the way, she sees their boards, a few local maps pinned to the walls, various photographs hung with care, all the signs of a case well underway, and her brain latches onto them in true investigative fashion. It’s a struggle to remain rooted to the spot, to keep herself from moving throughout the room to soak up as much information as she can about whatever secret squirrel stuff the Black Badge Division is in on. 

 

_Focus, Nicole._

 

Almost regrettably, Nicole looks back at Waverly and clears her throat.

 

“Ahem.”

 

Nothing. 

 

“AHEM.”

 

The second one does the trick, and Waverly pulls herself upright before her, eyes blinking furiously against the bright office lights.

 

“Nicole?” Her voice is wan with sleep, her features confused.

 

“Hey,” Nicole says softly, remaining fixed in her spot near the door. “I’m sorry - to wake you. I saw the light was on…” She trails off, a little unsure of how much smoothing would be required for her trespass.

 

“I didn’t want you to get a crick in your neck,” she continues. “Anyway, I just put a pot of coffee on, if you need some?” Her smile is soft and warm.

 

Waverly can’t help but warm in response, a reaction that surprises her a little in the slight haze that often follows a short nap. Perhaps that’s why the words slip out, miles less guarded than normal. “I thought I was supposed to get you a cup sometime.” It’s bold and flirtatious and her eyes grow big as silver dollars as soon as the words take form. She manages to stop just shy of slapping her hand over her mouth in an effort to keep any other words from tumbling out.

 

Just barely.

 

Waverly’s eyes drop and wander, landing anywhere but on the woman across from her.

 

_Did she just…_

 

Nicole just looks at her in wonder, unable to stop the smile that stretches across her face. But watching Waverly struggle and avoid, the awkwardness asserting itself in full force, she allows herself one more moment to enjoy it before just...

 

Chuckling, she bites her tongue and chooses her words with care. “Right, well, that’s true,” she says, trying to keep her tone warm and friendly. “But there’s coffee down the hall if you want any.” She gestures in the direction of the break room, the photos in her outstretched hand adding emphasis.

 

She didn’t mean to. She swears she didn’t. But when the words formed and her mouth opened to make the last statement, her voice dropped, and what came out was low-pitched and throaty and really really obvious. 

 

Across from her, Waverly’s eyes shoot up to hers, gauging, and her eyebrows rise infinitesimally. But then she diverts again, looking everywhere but at Nicole. The deputy notices the second something changes, though, Waverly’s face turns focused, quizzical. 

 

Pointing to the photos in Nicole’s hand, Waverly asks, “What are those?”

 

Nicole steps forward into the office until she’s standing just a few feet from Waverly. “Oh, um, I had a call this afternoon out at the blacksmith’s place out on 63,” she starts, paging through the photos in her hand while she talks. “I took these on my phone but I wanted-”

 

Without warning, Waverly reaches out, touches the edge of one of the photos, her eyes silently asking permission. Taken off guard and not seeing a reason to resist, Nicole lets her pull the photos from her grasp.

 

Waverly flips through them - the salt, the drawers, the ransacked shop. She pales with each progression. When she reaches the photo of the blood, close-up and stark and unavoidable, what color is left in her face drains completely, and she freezes. 

 

Her hands tremble, and the photo shakes exaggeratedly in her hands. 

 

“No,” she says. It’s a murmur, barely audible.

 

“No, no, no, no…” she repeats, never more than a whisper. With each utterance, her face twists, contorts further into panic. 

 

“Waverly?” Nicole asks, her face drawn up first in confusion. But Waverly doesn’t hear her, her gaze unwavering, her hands trembling noticeably now.

 

“Waverly…what is it?” The confusion is replaced by alarm, bright and insistent. She closes the gap to the table unconsciously. 

 

“I think-” Waverly starts, taking a deep breath, dragging her eyes slowly away from the photographs in her hand, up and up and up until she meets Nicole’s anxious gaze.

 

Swallowing harshly, she tries again. 

 

“I think...I might be in trouble.”


	5. Chapter 5

“What do you mean, you might be in trouble?” Nicole asks from her spot a few feet away, her eyes narrowed, her face drawn. There’s no mistaking the panic lacing her voice. 

But Waverly finds she can’t hold her gaze. Her eyes drop, pulled down almost irresistibly to the photos she’s holding in her hands, photos of the blacksmith’s shop looking like it took a direct hit by a tornado, its contents tossed and scattered from here to kingdom come. When her hands begin to tremble, the photographs rustle and flutter as well, as if they, too, feel the effects of the storm.

When she doesn’t respond, Nicole tries again, her voice turning soft. “Waverly, what’s going on?” A hand reaches out, rests tentatively atop her own where her grip on the photos has tightened, creasing the paper. Nicole’s hands are warm, and mercifully they draw Waverly’s attention away from the horrors of the crime scene photos, away from the panic scratching inside her ribcage. Everything disappears for a moment, except for their hands. 

Nicole curls her fingers over the side of her own, her fingertips resting gently in Waverly’s palm before squeezing kindly. 

Waverly swallows. Hard.

And squeezes back.

But then the hand is gone, resituated in neutral territory on the edge of the table.

She doesn’t know how to say “please put it back,” doesn’t know how to ask for the comfort she wants, so she merely looks at the hand where it grips the table now, solid and sure. When she finally raises her eyes, looks over at Nicole, squatting next to her, she can feel the concern rolling off of her in waves. 

“You can talk to me,” Nicole says when she’s sure she’s got Waverly’s attention.

_I know._

Nodding her head, her eyes drift once more to the photos in her hand, but before she can fall back down that rabbit hole, she reaches over, places them in a loose stack on the table, an attempt to remove the temptation, move the magnet out of range so she can resist the pull. She swivels her chair in Nicole’s direction.

_Focus._

Her eyes close on their own, and she begins.

“I was there, at the blacksmith’s. Yesterday afternoon.” Licking her lips nervously, her eyes flutter open, land briefly on Nicole before dropping to stare down at her own lap, where her hands are wringing nervously. 

“My uncle, he, um...he left me something in his will with a note that I should talk to her about it. To Mattie,” she clarifies, chancing another look at Nicole, listening attentively. “You see, there’s someone else who would want to know about it. Besides her,” she starts and stops, trying desperately to find the right words. 

She tries several combinations, but none seem to fit, either revealing far too much or far too little, all too clumsy in their construction. 

_You see there’s this witch, and this curse, and this skull...and how am I supposed to explain this? Like it’s normal..._

The face across from her, Nicole’s face is still etched with concern, and fear, cold and sharp and all-encompassing settles heavy in her gut when she imagines what would happen if she told her the truth, imagines the concern dropping from her face, twisting instead into a sneer, a laugh of disbelief and derision. Waverly the freak.

_I can’t...I can’t tell her any of this..._

So she takes her time, choosing her words with care, a surgeon performing a delicate operation when exhaustion is making her limbs heavy and clumsy. “This other person, she’d stop at nothing to get her hands on it.”

“Do you know who she is?” Nicole asks. Her voice is quiet, belying the intensity in her eyes. 

A bolt of pain, sharp and hot - her fingernails dig, leaving white crescents on her palms. “I don’t know her name. But I know she’s dangerous.” She thinks of Doc, best shot who ever lived, spending lifetimes at the bottom of a well, cold, dark. Alone. 

When she looks up, speaks again, her voice is barely a whisper. “Is Mattie...is she hurt?” The question hangs, suspended between them, solid and real and tangible, and suddenly she’s not so sure she wants to know the answer. 

Nicole looks at her and hesitates, conflict flashing across her face before she answers in a voice equally subdued. “I don’t know.” With a nod to the photos on the desk, she continues, “The place was in shambles, Waverly.” 

Unable to stop herself, Waverly reaches out again, runs her fingers along the photos where they sit on the table. Flipping through them one by one, absolutely sure she doesn’t want to see their contents anymore but utterly unable to help herself.

“I’m guessing it didn’t look like this when you were there yesterday,” Nicole says, covering her bases. Waverly simply shakes her head no, continues looking. “I found some blood, but look, it wasn’t much, ok? Not enough for…” Nicole trails off mid-sentence when Waverly’s head jerks up, her eyes wild.

_This is my fault. I did this. It’s all my fault if she’s…_

Taking a different tack, Nicole asks directly, “Do you think this woman, whoever she is...do you think she’d come after you?” 

It takes her a minute to hear the question, her thoughts stuck on an excruciating loop of self-blame and incrimination, a paradoxical brew of numbness and panic suffusing her body, pins and needles and nothingness making her limbs feel jittery and heavy all at the same time. When her mind finally processes the question she’s been asked, she tries to answer. The words stick in her throat, and no sound will come. Instead, she lifts her eyes and nods her head. _Yes._

Still squatting beside her, she watches as Nicole’s face closes in upon itself, the only movement now the repeated clenching of her jaw, the sharp rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes, far too shallowly. 

And so they sit together in silence, Waverly slowly splintering, Nicole staring back, her eyes burning with focus and fury. For all the intensity, Waverly can’t look away. 

Nicole blinks several times in quick succession, nods her head, whether it’s for herself or for Waverly she’s not really sure. The silence remains.

A sting again. Another indentation in her palms, her hands intent upon destruction. Pulling them apart, she supposes it’s inevitable, really, when they slide, reach for the photos once more, and she continues through the stack, her hands sore, her throat coated in guilt and bile. 

The rocking chair, ringed in white. 

_I bet it’s salt. That would make sense for a witch._

But the photos clearly show the ring is broken, the crystals scattered, any power it had to stop her rendered useless. Guilt burns like acid in her stomach.

_I brought her to Mattie’s doorstep. I did this._

The photos continue, the blood, metal scraps strewn around like confetti, and Waverly moves swiftly past them to-

She stops, snatches the next photo off the table with enough speed to rustle the notepad next to her. “What is this?” she asks, her voice squeaking uncontrollably. “Where was this?” Her wheels turning, she looks over at Nicole expectantly, shoving the paper between them.

Nicole blinks, lost. “Um, it was drawn on the wall, sort of by the door?” A moment passes, and she follows with her own question. “Did you see this when you were there yesterday?” 

Without looking up from the photo, Waverly shakes her head in the negative. 

In a blur of motion, Waverly pops out of her chair, bumping Nicole in the process, knocking her backward from her squatting position onto the floor, the picture of grace. Eyes wide in panic, Waverly squeaks out, “I’m _so_ sorry!” before reaching out her hand. When Nicole slides her own into it, the two plant their feet and pull, Nicole rising to her feet with ease until she’s fully upright and their bodies mere inches from one another.

So close that when Waverly looks up, her field of vision consists solely of an amused smirk and smiling eyes. 

For a moment she forgets. Forgets the witch, forgets the skull, forgets the caustic brew of fear and guilt and worry burning holes in her veins. 

She forgets to breathe.

Nicole dips her head, looks away, and Waverly blinks, shakes her head like she’s trying to loosen the spell, and she mumbles, “Right…I was...”

She’s off again, leaving Nicole standing by herself, something resembling a grin on her face. 

In a blur of brown hair and fuzzy boots, Waverly whirls around the room, the stress of the last few minutes momentarily forgotten. 

Because she has an idea. A good one.

Nicole stands quietly watching. She knows better than to interrupt someone in a breakthrough, and although still technically a rookie, she’s been around enough of them to know one when she sees it. 

Across the room, Waverly rips something off the wall, and it flaps and crackles in the air as she carries it back to the table, lightning and thunder in her hand. 

When the map is spread out beneath her, the entire Ghost River Triangle and its environs laid out in neat grid lines and pleasing pastels, she leans down close, her index finger running reverently over its creases, tracing the lines and names with purpose. Watching quietly, a mix of awe and amusement on her face, Nicole inches closer. 

With a startling _thwack_ , she jabs her finger at a location northwest of town in excitement, mumbling “Devil’s Head,” but her hand doesn’t still, continuing to trace a small area of the map, her eyes bright, her lips pursed in concentration. 

And then she stills, her mouth falling open, the start of a grin evident at the corners.

Grabbing her nearby notebook, she rips out a piece of paper before opening up Uncle Curtis’ journal, flipping with practiced hands to two pages near the back, each filled with his shaky attempts at a drawing, notes scribbled in the margins. 

Glancing between the two, she quickly copies their likeness (or what passes as a rough approximation thereof) onto her blank page, but rather than joining them along an inner seam, she leaves a gap in the middle. 

For a moment there’s no sound in the room save for the scritching of her pencil on the paper and the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. The two complement each other, a cadence of focus and efficiency. 

When the pieces from her uncle’s journal have been copied, she shifts, slides Nicole’s photo closer and sets to work penciling it into the empty space she’s left in the middle. 

Tick, tick, tick. She scratches away.

It fits perfectly.

“He was looking in the wrong place,” she whispers, awed. She looks up at Nicole, standing nearby watching her work. “All those years...he didn’t have the whole map…,” and then she skids back to the modern map spread out on the table, tracing its twists and lines with her eyes until she slows. Stops. Her eyes dart back to Curtis’ map, checking the approximate location denoted by a strange symbol.

And she’s off again, whirling around the room, leaving papers fluttering in her wake. Nicole watches, her mouth agape, as Waverly snatches up a banker’s box and hauls it back to the table.

It’s one of her boxes of research, the ones she brought up here a few months ago when Wynonna first teamed up with Dolls and Black Badge. He’d been more than willing to use her research, but he took a lot more warming up before letting her join the team. _Not that I feel much like I’m on the team these days._

Her life’s work is in these boxes, neatly categorized and labeled and sourced. Standing over the box, her blood pounds steadily in her ears as she flips through the contents - back issues of newspapers - with the practiced ease of someone who has spent a lifetime in them, searching for one in particular. She knows it’s here. _Nope._ Flips again _Nope._ Flips to the next one. _C’mon, it’s gotta -_

Lifting the most recent reject up, her eyes fall on the headline on the next edition.

_There._

Pulling the paper from the stack, she shoves the box to the side and examines the front page of the Ghost River Chronicle, circa June 1894, where the headline declares _Local Mining Operation to Close._

Skimming the article, she gleans the needed information and looks back at Curtis’ map.

_A coal mine. It’s gotta be. It’s the mine!_

A smile on her face, she circles back to the local map once more, focusing on the Ghost River, her fingers tracing the route as it’s plotted on her uncle’s map. When she reaches the symbol, where X (or more specifically its oddly shaped stand-in) marks the spot, she lifts her finger...and laughs.

_You’ve gotta be kidding me…_

While the mine is located in the foothills, the base of the beast, according to the newspaper, a mountain towers overhead, a fitting backdrop. Written in italics, it reads: Revenant Mountain. 

Her laugh bubbles and bubbles, borderline hysterical and utterly unstoppable. It’s just...too much.

“Waves, um I hate to interrupt-” Nicole finally speaks up from her observation post, her hands spread wide “-whatever this is, but what are you talking about?” Confusion clouds her face as she waits for a response.

“It might still be there!” Waverly responds before she can think about her words, the thrill of her discovery getting the better of her. Hope getting the better of her. Standing over the desk, her finger points again at the location on the map, taps repeatedly in emphasis. 

“Huh? What might still be there?” Nicole’s eyes follow, reading the map, interested but completely lost. 

Waverly looks up, smile wide, her eyes are bright with excitement, and her hair is disheveled, wild from her manic tour of the office. 

But when she sees Nicole, eyebrows knit in confusion, her hands settled comfortably atop her duty belt, she realizes what she’s said, who she’s said it to. She reads disbelief into it.

The smile slides from her face, falls to the floor in a pile of ash, leaving nothing but embers in its wake.

_Oh no...no, no, no…_

And she’s at a loss. What can she say? What’s safe? The pendulum swings back and forth, and her stomach roils with the motion. She stands up, pulling her arms close, and she studies Nicole with hesitance, noting her confusion, her attentiveness, and how her eyes still regard her softly.

She holds her breath and leaps.

“Something to stop her.”

Nicole sighs, “Waverly, you’re not making sense.”

She can feel herself falling. It’s an odd sensation, the weightlessness, and with her heart in her throat, she chokes back a shaky breath, attempts to laugh. They both wince at the squeak. 

She’s no stranger to this feeling. Memories flash through her mind - the first day of school after the attack on the homestead, after she lost her dad, her sister...well, really both of her sisters, the whole school watching her, talking about her, judging her. The first of many. She’s gotten better, over the years, better at hiding. Better at pretending. 

But fifteen years and it hurts the same. Standing stock still, her eyes burn and her cheeks redden, and she’s not sure she can salvage this one. 

She can hardly dare to look up. Her eyes flit around the room, never landing, never perching, a bird in panicked flight, flying and flying until it tires itself out, never safe enough to still.

Nicole watches her. _Sees_ her. The panic is palpable, and in seeing it there, neon and buzzing, her face transforms.

It even breaks, just a little. 

“Hey, hey,” she leans in a little, drawing Waverly’s attention. “It’s OK.” She pauses, waits for her to focus a little. “Just… _talk_ to me. Explain it to me, OK? I want to understand.” 

And with that, she steps back, giving Waverly space, stepping slowly around to the other side of the table. The chair scrapes noisily along the linoleum, and Nicole drops into it unceremoniously.

Waverly eyes her warily but remains quiet.

Nicole swallows, makes a show of looking around the room. “Is Deputy Marshall Dolls coming back any time soon?” When Waverly’s only response is a confused shrug, she presses on, a smirk sliding onto her face with ease, “Just curious if I need to worry about any treason charges in my future for being here.” The smirk stays, and Nicole’s eyebrows raise in emphasis.

_How does she do that…_

Her fall slows, the cord wrapped around her heart loosens ever so slightly. And her eyes?

They’ve settled. She can’t seem to take her eyes off of that cocky grin aimed in her direction.

When the corner of her own mouth twitches, pulls little by little upward, Nicole exhales a quiet laugh, and her smile grows in an echo. 

The silence stretches between them, but the tenor is changed. While Nicole waits patiently, Waverly takes her time. The clock on the wall ticks faithfully.

When her hands begin to twist of their own accord, anxious and jittery, she takes another breath. Reaching, she strokes a hand over the journal, its yellowed pages rough beneath her fingertips. 

The leather binding is warm, her uncle’s cramped writing so familiar her heart aches momentarily with loss. 

Across the table, Nicole watches quietly.

_I want to tell her._

She opens her mouth, only to let it fall closed again.

Taking a step back from the table, her feet begin to shuffle across the linoleum, one way and the other, back and forth.

_I want to...please, just..._

She starts, her throat moves, but there’s no sound.

And still Nicole sits, waits.

Back and forth she paces, her steps multiplying to match the frenzied hammering in her ribcage. It’s only with herculean effort that she slows either one, brings herself back to the table. Back to Nicole. Reaching out, she places one finger atop Curtis’ journal where it sits near the edge, traces a line down its cover.

When she tries a third time, she doesn’t lift her head. Addressing herself to the journal beneath her finger, her voice barely a whisper, she starts, “My Uncle Curtis explored a lot. He was kind of a local history junkie.” She smiles to herself at the understatement. A soft smile. Nostalgic. But she doesn’t look up, and so she misses the way Nicole’s mouth pulls up at the corners in response to the fondness in her voice. 

“He collected stuff, items of interest. Most of it was junk,” she chuckles. The amount of hideous flea market finds, each with a more outlandish backstory than the last, that he managed to cram into his home during his lifetime. Well, Gus is a saint, that’s all there is to it. 

Her voice is stronger when she continues. “But he also collected information. The historical society loved him. He used to take me with him sometimes, show me how to use the archives. We’d spend an afternoon at the society at least once a month, digging through stacks of yellowing paper and old records.” The affection is clear - in her tone, her expression. “Afterward, we’d hit up the diner for ice cream. Always. It was kind of our little secret.” With a roll of the eyes, she adds, “‘Don’t mention this to Gus,’ he’d tell me.” 

Laughing quietly, her fingers wrap around the journal, and she lifts it gently from the table, runs her thumb in reverent circles over a blemish on the cover. 

When she raises her head, there’s a new strength in her voice. “There’s something he spent years searching for. He just didn’t have all the pieces.” There’s a spark in her eyes, now, and she steps forward, places her hands on the table in front of her. “It could change _everything_. This-” she points to the creased photo of the map in Mattie’s shop, “-look, I don’t know why this was there, if Mattie left it for me...I don’t know. But this, and this-” she continues, pointing emphatically between the photo and the journal, “-it’s starting to feel like something solid.” 

The rest tumbles out, as if now that she’s started it simply cannot be stopped. Turning around, back and forth and back and forth she paces once more, and the words filling the air turn feverish. “And if I’m in danger, if she’s really coming after me, I can’t just sit here and wait for her to find me.” 

When her feet halt in their circuit, the rest of her takes up the slack. Pointing at the map, her movements are assertive, and there’s a touch of iron in her spine. She stands tall and finally looks at Nicole as she speaks. “There’s a chance it’s still there. Something that would stop her. Something that would save…” 

And she almost makes a mistake, almost says _everyone_. But this is _Nicole_. She can’t...she can’t tell her everything. It’s not all hers to tell. 

Instead, she vacillates, finishing the sentence far quieter than she started. “Something that would save...me.”

The word echoes in the stillness. But there’s danger in the quiet. 

A voice, silken and insinuating, whispers in her ears. It only says four words, and they’re familiar. Intimately familiar. Words she’s been saying to herself in one form or another for a lifetime. Over and over and over.

It’s enough.

She thinks of Dolls and Wynonna, chasing after Bobo del Ray and rounding up revenants - but not with her. She thinks of the attack on the homestead, watching her sisters fight, defend - but not her. She thinks of online courses and dead languages and seasons passed amongst the musty stacks in the basement of the archives, but it meant nothing as soon as Wynonna returned.

And when the voice reminds her one more time, each word more damning than the last, something definitive clicks into place.

_You’re not the heir._

Closing her eyes, she runs shaky hands through her hair and shakes her head ever so slightly, and when she opens them, she’s looking once more at the leather journal.

“I can’t do it anymore. I can’t sit on the sidelines and let everyone else…” The sentence remains unfinished. 

She raises her eyes to Nicole again. “I need to do this, Nicole. I’m _going_ to do this.” 

Sitting across from her, watching her intently, Nicole’s face is inscrutable. The only sound is the second hand on the wall clock, and with each tick tick tick, Waverly’s anxiety begins to rise like floodwater. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide now, and so she stands, icy water crawling up from her feet, chilling her limbs, lapping at her chest. She imagines she can taste it - fetid - and she wants to vomit. 

The fingers of her empty hand twist, and her nails begin to dig once more. Waverly waits in silence. 

Nicole’s eyes glance downward at the movement, a frown forming at what she sees, and then they move across the table - to the map, the newspaper. Calculating. 

And when she speaks, her voice is calm, conversational even. “OK, so what I hear you saying is that you are proposing you are going to hike, what, thirteen? Fourteen miles out into the mountains? Have you done any backwoods camping before?” 

There’s no laugh, and although she’s grateful for that, Waverly’s cheeks immediately begin to redden, feeling called out. 

Nicole continues, pushing back in her chair a little, “Think about what you’re saying. You want to head out into the wilderness on your own on some sort of treasure hunt?” 

Waverly bristles.

And still Nicole presses, undeterred. “Do you have a tent? A pack?”

“I’ve got to _do_ something, Nicole, I can’t just _sit_ here and wait for her to get me, too!” Her voice rises, cracks with emotion. She makes no attempt to rein it in. 

Rising, Nicole rounds the table and narrows the distance between them. “What if you get hurt, Waverly?”

Waverly’s face pinches at the insinuation - _not this again_ , but she finds she can’t respond. With each step Nicole takes toward her, Waverly takes one backward, their feet moving them in a pitiable imitation of a dance. The barrage of questions leaves Waverly off balance and speechless. Her throat moves, she wills the words to come. But nothing does.

Equal parts humiliated and furious, she finally finds her feet and stops in her tracks, rooting herself to the spot. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, but before she can speak, Nicole beats her to it.

“I’m coming with you.”

“WHAT?” The yell startles them both, and she raises her hand to her mouth as if she could somehow put it back. 

“What?” she tries again, sure that she misheard or misunderstood or _something_ because it sounded an awful lot like Nicole offered to go with her.

As it turns out, that is exactly what Nicole is proposing, and she lays out her plan in thorough fashion. Leading them back to the table, she runs her fingers along the map where Waverly had pointed earlier, tracing the Ghost River in its course into the mountains, along past the fork where Uncle Curtis misspent his time and right up to the base of Revenant Mountain. 

“Look, I haven’t made it quite that far upriver before, but I _have_ hiked out that way a few times, and I’ve been camping since I was a kid.”

The curiosity must register on her face because Nicole smirks before dipping her head, looking away. “New kid in town, remember?” The light-heartedness falters slightly when she continues, her voice a little quieter, “I don’t exactly have a full social calendar, so I like to spend my off time getting to know the area.” Her ears redden a bit before she shrugs, continuing on in her regular tone once more. “I have gear, enough for you, too.” 

Waverly hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. She feels like she’s been standing there with her mouth agape just staring. 

“So. What’ll it be?”

She takes a moment, tries to let her surprise, her confusion slide away so she can circle back. Back to something Nicole said a minute ago, something that sticks and claws and raises her hackles. And she can feel it happening. Again. She snaps peevishly, “I don’t need a protector! Why does everyone think I can’t handle myself?” 

“No,” Nicole sighs, exasperated. With a deep breath, she steps closer. “I’m not saying you do, Waverly. Not at all.” Changing tack, she asks, “What do you think happens if a call comes into the station for a violent situation in progress? Do you think they just send one officer?” 

Waverly shakes her head, and Nicole nods at the response. “Right. They’ll send everyone on duty if they have to. This isn’t about you not being able to protect yourself, Waves. It’s about having back-up.” 

“Yeah?” And she looks - really looks. There’s earnestness written in every nuance of Nicole’s face, from the bright eyes to the raised eyebrows to the way she biting her lips while she waits. 

Her anger is already ebbing, withdrawing with the floodwater, and she breathes deeply, savoring it. For the first time tonight, her hands hang loosely by her side, her fingers relaxed, her palms unmarred. 

“I promise. I’ve got your back.” 

Her heart, though, still knocks wildly against her ribcage.

 

* * *

 

“Christ, I think there’s a rock wedged into my kneecap,” Wynonna complains, squirming restlessly in her spot high up on the ridge. The moon is bright overhead, but they’re far enough away from their target that being spotted isn’t really a concern, concealed neatly in the scrub brush on the hill above Bobo Del Ray’s construction site. 

“How do these not affect you?!” she continues, casting a glance at Dolls when she manages to find a position with a lower rock to knee ratio. He’s ignoring her, the binoculars held steadfastly to his eyes. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead in spite of the cold.

After leaving the station earlier in the night, they had originally headed to the trailer park, Bobo’s standard stomping grounds, but they’d barely had time to park the car, find a good spot to sit and watch when he came storming out into the night barking orders, his fur coat whipping wildly behind him. 

And now here they are.

“Eyes up, Earp.” Dolls hasn’t moved a muscle, but somehow he knows she’s still staring. With a huff and a roll of the eyes, she wiggles a little in place, making sure this position is a little easier on the knees than the last one before lifting her own binoculars to her face.

Down below, the man of the hour halts in his harried steps, barks something at one of his henchmen, but the sound doesn’t carry to their ears high on the ridge. They’re standing in a circle of orange, fires blazing in a half dozen barrels around them, and some of the men edge toward the flames surreptitiously to seek out a little extra warmth.

Bobo paces between them like a caged animal, his teeth gleaming menacingly in the flickering light. 

Headlights cut across the tableau, and the gathered crew step back, slinking into the shadows where they wait and watch.

The pink lincoln enters stage right, its growls echoing throughout the site.

“That car…,” Wynonna mutters to herself, gripping the binoculars tighter.

A woman steps out in a whirl of stilettos and fur, and she walks toward Bobo like a queen. 

“Wait a sec...isn’t that whatsherface? The lawyer.” She pauses, her face screwed up in concentration as she searches her memory for the name. It’s a name she’s heard only once, standing under the harsh fluorescent lights in a Purgatory interrogation room. “Stone?” 

She looks into the binoculars again, nodding to herself before pulling them from her face. When she turns to Dolls by her side, incredulity flashes across her face in neon. “Who in the hell meets their goddamn lawyer in the middle of the night? And way out here?” She eyes the scene below again. “I’d hate to see that bill.” 

“That’s not all she is,” Dolls comments, though he remains motionless, a gargoyle perched, ever vigilant. “According to Doc, she’s also the Stone Witch.”

“The one who threw him down in the well?” 

She huffs in surprise, her breath pluming in the cold night air, suspended like a veil between them.

“But why didn’t he say anything?” A pause. “Wait, why didn’t you?” The hurt in her voice grows with each word until it becomes a tangible thing, all teeth and claws.

Before he can respond, the phone secreted away in his pocket vibrates, and with a quick look at Wynonna, he shifts, steps back to retrieve it. 

Jaw clenched, she slings the binoculars back up and goes back to watching the scene below, a bouquet of colorful responses sitting on her tongue, bitter and barbed and unspoken.

 

* * *

 

“Constance,” he purrs, his voice low, bristling at the inconvenience. “Mind telling me what was so urgent it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” He stands tall, his eyes trained on the woman across from him as she steps closer, her hips swaying seductively.

“Well, Robert,” she starts, coming to a stop a foot away from where he waits. Reaching out, she trails one manicured nail along the side of his face, across skin and beard alike, deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t give me my sons. I need to speak with them.” Her finger changes angles, slides slowly down his jaw. 

“They’re spread out all over the county. It takes time!” he growls, his lip curling, the effect grotesque in the flickering light. “And we had a deal. I find you the bones-” he pauses, raises his eyebrow in challenge, “-and you bring me the lead.” In an instant his jaws snap shut, his teeth cracking together with surprising force. 

But Constance Clootie is unphased, her finger still outstretched, drawing idle designs along his skin, down to his neck with a gossamer touch. When she steps impossibly closer, her face mere inches from his, she licks her lips slowly. Bobo’s eyes drop, stare. In a whisper, she says, “We don’t have time.” 

In a flash she curls her finger, her nail digging into the soft skin of his neck, and blood wells to the surface, a bright rivulet rolling down along her fingers, falling beneath his coat. 

Bobo flinches. Tthe resulting smile on her face is nothing short of triumphant. When she withdraws her hand, she brings it up to her mouth and lets her tongue curl around the tip of her fingernail, slow and commanding, licking it clean of blood. 

“Now,” she purrs, “I want to see my sons.”

His nostrils flare, but he nods his head to his men. Two break off, walk to the wooden building beyond the ring of fire and remove the heavy padlock barring the door. 

Constance follows, her face impassive. When she’s out of sight, Bobo’s lips curl, and he runs a hand along his neck to wipe away the shame with a growl.

The wooden door closes behind her with a creak, and suddenly she’s alone. 

The room is dim, the only source of light a solitary bulb hanging in the center of the room, insufficient to reach the periphery, a pinpoint of light drowning in darkness. Stepping forward, her bravado muted, she passes through the sheets of plastic dividing the room in two with a quiet scrape.

Until finally she’s no longer alone.

She can hear them. She can always hear them, crying out in loneliness and pain, cries so agonizing it torments her, night and day, dreaming and waking. Bending, she sinks to her knees between the incomplete skeletons of her sons, her head bowed in supplication. “I know, my darlings. We’re almost there.”

Tenderly, she leans in, places a rouged kiss on the forehead of the skull to her right, a mother’s attempt to soothe. To heal. But when she looks to her left, to the dirt where her other son’s skull should be, the cries in her head this time are her own. She places a kiss on his shoulder instead. “Soon.” It’s a whisper. A promise.

Gathering herself, she continues, “I know something that will help. Mommy’s coming, boys.”

When she withdraws her left hand from beneath her coat, she’s wielding a dagger, and with a breath, deep and calculated, she begins her incantation. The words are strange, ancient things, rich and melodic in their own way, and with each one, the knife in her hand glows brighter, its light a glacial blue. Where Bobo’s blood still stains the skin on her fingers, she touches her knife, and without flinching, she slices it cleanly, their blood mixing. 

She stares, transfixed at the sight of her own blood, deep and thick, before leaning toward her son once more, the one without a skull, and placing her bloody fingers on the spot she had marked moments before with a kiss. The bone beneath her fingertips warms to her touch. 

A strange wind swirls around the trio, the plastic sheeting flapping wildly against its fasteners while the light from the dagger grows stronger and brighter with each word spoken, flashing like bottled lightning in the small space. 

Her words lift higher and higher on the wind. It burns electric in her ears. 

When the incantation reaches its end, the final word released into the world, the entirety of her power behind it, the sound reaches a crescendo. Glass rattles in the windows, her teeth ache at the vibration, and she screams. The light from her spell, electric blue, rushes inward upon herself, and it covers her head to toe. 

She’s luminescent, the glow playing softly off of the plastic sheeting all around them, now hanging motionless from the ceiling, and she has one moment, one quick, fleeting moment to marvel at how beautiful it is before the light sinks further, hits her veins where it boils white and hot and excruciating. 

A scream dies in her throat.

Silence descends like a guillotine, swift and terrible, and Constance falls backward, her body collapsing neatly between the bones of her boys, a ghastly familial triptych. Her chest does not rise, her lungs do not fill. Their bones rest together.

For a moment.

With a jolt, she jerks upright and sucks in a breath. When her eyes open, they burn bright and blue before fading. She blinks. Breathes more easily. 

Her smile is all teeth, white and dangerous and skeletal. 

“I can feel it,” she murmurs, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. “I can smell it.” 

The spell is an old one, intended to strengthen the traces of magic she felt in the shop, the magic they used on her son so recently, turning it into something with form, with a scent.

Turning it into something trackable. 

Oh, it’s imprecise, and it’ll start and stop and go back and forth in a vexing trail that will try her patience in the days to come. But it’s there.

Looking left and right, she addresses her boys again, “I’ll cover the entire triangle if I have to, comb the county like a damned bloodhound.” she pauses, her eyes wild and smile feral. “They didn’t reckon on this bitch.”

A wave of exhaustion passes through her, and her eyes begin to grow heavy. The cost of a spell so old, so powerful is a steep one. She needs rest, but then...

“Mommy’s coming, boys.”

 

* * *

 

“You gonna be alright tonight?” Nicole asks, holding open the glass door at the front of the station, the cold air biting at her legs while she walks Waverly out to her car. The streets are empty, not that that’s surprising. It’s well after midnight now, and Purgatory doesn’t exactly have the reputation for nightlife that the city does.

“Yeah,” Waverly responds while she walks, tossing her words over her shoulder as she goes. “Wynonna texted a little while ago. She and Dolls are on their way back, so she’ll be headed home soon, too.” 

The streetlight on the corner ahead of them hums softly in the late hour, painting the front of the building amber gold. Walking a step or two in front of her, Waverly’s back is dark, and her profile when she turns her head to talk is cloaked in shadow, her face unreadable. 

There are a million things she wants to ask.

_That might be an understatement._

Questions have been bubbling up all night, sharp and urgent. Questions she knows Waverly won’t answer. While they put their heads together over maps and journals and newspapers back in the Black Badge office, planning and scratching out notes on a scrap of paper, she watched Waverly skirt the subject all night, delicately dancing around the details.

Anytime she asked her something perhaps a little too pointed the panic returned to her eyes. They’d get restless, her limbs would get jittery. Her fingers would curl in upon themselves, and it was all too painful to watch. Over the course of the night, she got better about editing her commentary, better at working around the dissonances and gaps towering a mile high in Waverly’s story.

So her questions, the real ones, remain unvoiced still. They sit lodged in her throat, packed so tightly she might choke. 

When Waverly reaches her Jeep, the door unlocking with a soft beep, she opens it up and throws her bag into the passenger seat, starts the engine with a growl and cranks up the heater. But she doesn’t climb in just yet. Nicole stops at the bumper, suddenly feeling a little awkward.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Waverly asks from behind her open door. 

Nicole’s smile is tired. “I think you mean today. You’ve got the address, right?”

“Got it,” Waverly responds around a yawn. Or at least that’s what she thinks she said.

One step. Two. Nicole chases her own shadow back to the sidewalk before turning to Waverly again, finding the tired eyes watching her from behind the car door. With a nod, she says simply, “Be careful.” 

Waverly nods once in response and climbs in, the sound of the door closing startling loud along the empty street. When she’s buckled in, the muffled sound of music reverberating dully from inside the Jeep, her eyes flash up to Nicole’s once more, and with a shy wave, she’s gone.

Returning to her desk, Nicole tosses the copies of her photos down near her hat and sinks down into her chair, letting her head loll back and her arms dangle off the sides.

_Christ, Nicole, what are you doing?_

The bitch of it is that she doesn’t have a good answer. A mirthless laugh escapes her throat.

_No answers. I have exactly zero answers._

A missing - possibly injured - person, some...unusual elements at the crime scene. And Waverly Earp sitting right in the middle. With a target on her back, no less.

It shouldn’t surprise her, she supposes. In the months she’s been here she’s seen plenty, read plenty to know that there is something very, very different about Purgatory. Something wrong. And like it or not, the Earps seem to have been involved in one way or another for a very, very long time. 

What she hasn’t quite figured out is why her coworkers either don’t seem to notice the increasingly bizarre things going on in their town or, like the sheriff, they’d prefer not to know. It’s easier for them to convince themselves that everything’s normal when their heads are so far into the sand the only thing they can see are worms. 

And that...doesn’t sit well with Nicole.

It didn’t take her long to see a pattern in the cases they were instructed to hand over to Black Badge. She’s not blind, and she’s not dumb, and she’d rather walk into a firing squad with eyes wide open than stand shaking at the end of it with a cloth around her eyes, trying feverishly to convince herself that the noise she just heard wasn’t the sound of a half dozen guns being cocked...it simply couldn’t be. 

Staring at the ceiling tiles above her desk, the questions bubble up again, her brain desperately searching for the story behind the story, for the crucial details Waverly has left out. Clearly, she doesn’t want to talk, to explain, and the questions sit solidly like a wall between them. They both see it, both know it exists, but rather than name it, Waverly seems content to feign ignorance.

Like Nedley, in a way.

Sitting up straight in her chair, she looks back to the photos, wrinkled now from where Waverly had gripped them too tightly before. 

It’s untenable, ultimately, being in the dark. Waverly has to know that. And maybe she does. Maybe she knows, too, that Nicole can wait a little longer for the light to break through.

With a sigh, she unlocks her computer and opens up a new email message, addressing it to Sheriff Nedley. Even though she’s off-duty for the next three days, it occurs to her that someone needs to know what the situation is, where she’ll be. 

Her report from the blacksmith’s place is already on his desk, having finished it up earlier in the evening. She doesn’t want to add any of this to the official record. Not yet, anyway. Something tells her Nedley would probably ask her to rewrite it if she did, so she types up a quick email, her fingers flying over her keys. 

Her message is simple, the gist of it being that Waverly Earp may have been the last person to see the Blacksmith, and together they’re pursuing a lead in the foothills. The cursor blinks and blinks and blinks while she reads then re-reads her email. After a few revisions, her hand hovers over the mouse, and with a quick breath, she clicks send.

_And that’s that._

She yawns, one of those full-bodied ones that seem to pull all the way from her toes, and getting the hint, she stands, stuffs her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Snagging her hat and her photos as she rounds the desk, she heads toward the front door, her boots thudding dully on the linoleum. 

When she steps outside, the cold night air sharp in her lungs, she looks to the sky and wonders once more just what she’s gotten herself into.

 

* * *

 

The moon is well into its ascent, death white and luminous, only a sliver of its face remaining veiled in shadow tonight. A mild breeze carrying a hint of pine stirs the yellow crime scene tape hanging in strips around the door, and they beat softly against the frame in disjointed rhythm. The door handle glints dully in the moonlight in silent invitation, and Doc reaches, yanks, the door sliding easily enough along its rails, but the racket it makes breaks the expectant stillness of the countryside, leaves him feeling like a one-man shivaree, jangling pots and pans and raising cane outside a new couple’s home.

Moonlight spills inside, but its progress halts a few feet in where the darkness stiffens its spine, holds the line. Further into the shop where the busy walls give way to windows, a few patches of light break through, diamonds of moonlight sparkling on the dirt floor at irregular intervals. Save for these interruptions, the rest remains in shadow, dark and forbidding and silent. 

Doc Holliday is not a fan of dark spaces.

Not that anyone would really blame him, of course, having been interred at the bottom of a well back when Grover Cleveland occupied the White House...the first time. A well so deep the sun did precious little to pierce the gloom, apart from those glorious minutes when the sun was high overhead, and he could lean his head back, almost talk himself into imagining he could feel the rays warming his face.

Almost.

Nights, though - nights were unending, lifetimes spent in hell without even the hope of death’s mercy. Standing in the doorway now, bathed in moonlight, a shiver runs down his spine like someone stepped on his grave. 

Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he fishes out a small item, the name of which escapes him. A portable torch, so to speak, a gift from Waverly. Holding it up in the pale glow, he finds the button on the side. A momentary flicker and it holds, strong, the beam like bottled sunshine. 

“Huh,” he mutters to himself, his continued wonderment at technology condensed into a single, understated exhale. 

The flashlight lighting the way, Doc steps inside with the appearance of confidence, and his movement stirs the air, rousing the dormant scents of iron, of coal, and with them, he sees flashes of memories, of time long since forgotten. Smells are funny like that. The ones here are sharp, alive, and the iron clings to his whiskers to be carried into the shop. Outside, his horse whinnies where he’s been hitched up, the reins affixed to some...metal monster out front, but quiet quickly falls again. 

Step by step, sweeping the light from side to side, Doc moves deftly around the mess on the floor, around the spilled tools, the open drawers. Top to bottom this place is all business, tools hung en masse on the walls, hanging out of drawers, machines lined up with the smallest of working room in between. 

There are differences, of course, but taking stock of what he’s seen, so many of the tools of the trade are little changed from his own day. The hammer and tongs, the forges and anvils, all familiar. Comforting, he thinks, running a hand along the cold, flat top of the anvil by his side. It’s taken some...adjustment to get used to the newfangled contraptions, the leaps and bounds that formed modernity. 

All of the things he missed, the world moving onward and upward while he sat at the bottom of a well, forgotten. Left behind.

His nostrils flare, the only indication of the anger simmering in his veins. 

There will be a reckoning, without a doubt, for the wrongs done to him. The witch’s time will come, and it will be soon. But just like with a card game, sure there’s luck, but there’s work to be done. Know one’s opponents, know what risks they’re willing to take, their strengths, their tells. Find their weaknesses. Then? Draw. Win.

In his day, Doc spent more than his fair share of time much like he did tonight, jabbering over a drink, telling stories and listening to others. Always listening, gathering information. There were rumors, talk of Constance Clootie making visits out at the blacksmith’s. Now most everyone at the time availed themselves of the blacksmith’s services, that’s not a surprise. He had the best iron around and a hand so fine and steady it was almost magic. But someone like Clootie? Unusual, highly unusual. She had...others...who took care of her menial tasks, only gracing someone with her presence in matters of importance. Hence the gossip. 

The gentlemen at the bar tonight, their lips loose with liquor, indulged Doc in a hurried version of history, told him their blacksmith’s family has been in the Ghost River area for generations, that she had learned from her father and so on and so forth. There were a few aspersions cast on her hospitality, but none would quarrel with the quality of her work. 

Being here, skulking around this shop in the middle of the night, he knows he’s playing the long odds. They could be completely unrelated. But the stakes are high enough to merit the gamble.

As he nears the back, a display catches his eye. Their tips illuminated by a spear of moonlight from the window, at first glance it looks like a set of prison bars hanging from the ceiling, but when he steps closer, he realizes they’re cattle brands. Angling his head, Doc admires the handiwork and checks out the symbols adorning the business end. A spontaneous smile blooms on his face when he spots a familiar one about halfway down the line, the sign of a family, a man he once knew.

“Wonder what happened to that old goat,” he says to himself, straightening, turning to see if there’s anywhere left to look in the recesses of the shop.

And that’s when he sees it. Just barely, though, the salt almost washed out and invisible in the blinding LED beam of his flashlight. Salt surrounding a chair, someone sitting, waiting. Anticipating.

Without a doubt in his body, Doc knows the Stone Witch was expected here, and it wasn’t exactly going to be a warm reception, judging by the set-up. 

He throws a cursory glance at the rocking chair in the center, his light playing quickly over it, before turning away.

But then he freezes. His brain registers something important, but it hasn’t let the rest of him in on the secret. He turns again, slowly, stepping closer to inspect the furniture before him. It’s nothing remarkable, clearly old but fairly well cared for. Solid. Another comforting reminder that there are some things in this world that haven’t changed all that much.

His eyes fall on the arm, where a hole mars the otherwise good shape of the chair, and his eyes grow large.

“Can’t be…”

He squats, reaches out, the edges of the hold smoothed over the years. “Well now,” his words are hushed. “Don’t that just beat all.” 

The bullet hole has aged well. He knows with absolute certainty that’s what it is - a bullet hole. And more importantly, he knows how it got there.

More than 130 years ago, he’d fired the gun that made the hole himself. 

It was a long time ago, another lifetime. His best friend was celebrating a milestone, and in order to honor him, he’d “borrowed” his friend’s gun for a spell and commissioned the local blacksmith to do a simple engraving on the underside of the grip. And he had tired of waiting. 

In those days, the consumption was busy making a meal of his body, so he took pleasure where he could find it, and more often than not that meant he was bent at the elbow and at the bottom of a bottle. He hadn’t fired his gun to hurt anyone, just to...encourage timeliness. 

Running his fingers along the worn edge of the bullet hole once more, he feels the luck turning in his favor. When he stands, he evaluates his surroundings with renewed purpose, flashing the light once more over the drawers, the salt, the tools left lying on the ground, swimming in moonlight. 

Lifetimes ago he and Wyatt spent their share of time chasing down folks who didn’t want to be found, and he had honed his ability to track. Hell, he’d paid a high price for it, years of sweat. Years of blood and loss. And this - this looks like flight, a hurried desertion rather than a last stand, and he figures he’s seen enough to know the difference. 

Luck, it seems, is on his side tonight. His mustache twitches, and when he breathes, it’s all iron and dust, the smell familiar and comforting. If it is indeed the same family plying their trade after all these years, they’ve moved from their old place, the one he’d been to a time or two before he crossed paths with the Stone Witch. But he remembers. 

Tomorrow, he’ll have to pay the old place a visit, when the darkness isn’t so thick.

 

* * *

 

Her sleep is fitful. She tosses restlessly under the mountain of blankets, an occasional whimper escaping, only to be swallowed by the complete darkness of the room around her. 

She barely slept last night, and her bones ache with weariness. 

Her day was quiet, barely a word spoken aloud as she went about her work. If you could call it that. She expected the silence to continue into the night, a sanctuary of stillness for her exhausted limbs. 

But it hasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact, for when her eyes close, when her mind stills and her breathing evens out, that’s when she hears them.

The voices.

She’s standing in a room, black as the night. The voices, they’re quiet at first, susurrant, like snow falling through the branches of the forest. So quiet she’s not even sure she’s actually hearing anything, or if her mind is playing tricks on her, creating monsters out of the nothingness. 

Eventually, they grow louder, and she’s able to hear individuals within the crowd, male, female, although the words are still indistinct. 

A flash, bright and shocking in the darkness. A hammer falls with a heavy strike, but instead of sparks, white and hot, it creates a cascade of shards, icy blue.

They rain down like icicles, sharp and deadly.

Mattie wakes with a start, her clothes, her sheets sticky with sweat. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, but the rhythm is disjointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those playing along at home, using Google Maps I've overlaid a quick approximation of the final "treasure map" if you'd like to follow along: [Blackdamp Map](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1Jkr2NLN-EqY94gRqwqnoi0MXcng&usp=sharing).


End file.
